OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


BEEZEY   OF    GALILEE. 


FATHER  TOM 

OF  CONNEMARA 

BY 

ELIZABETH  O'REILLY  NEVILLE 

HSB 

ILLUSTRATED 

CHICAGO  AND  NEW  YORK: 
RAND,  MCNALLY  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 

Copyright,  1902,  by  Rand,  McNally  &  Co. 


DeMcatton. 

TO  THE  MEMORY   OF 

JOHN  O'REILLY,  C.  E., 

AND  IN  GRATEFUL  REMEMBRANCE  OF  HIS 
SOJOURN  AMONG  THE  HOSPITABLE  PEOPLE  OF  THE 

INCOMPARABLE  IRISH  HIGHLANDS 

THIS  VOLUME   IS   DEDICATED  BY   HIS 

AFFECTIONATE  DAUGHTER. 


2131999 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

FATHER  TOM 7 

ORDAINED  FOR  CONNEMARA, 18 

BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE, 35 

NED  THE  INNOCENT,          ........  87 

EXCOMMUNICATED 115 

ROSY  O'TOOLE'S  HOUR  OF  PURGATORY,           ....  161 

MOLLY  DOWD, 182 

THE  STOLEN  DINNER, 200 

MOLLY  MULLANEY 226 

ROSY  MCDONNELL'S  JEALOUSY, 250 

VULCAN  AND  VENUS, 269 

AUNT  JULEY'S  WARNING, 296 

JAMIE  PATTERSON'S  HOOSE  AND  TEN  ACRES 316 

ST.  JOHN'S  EVE,        ...                337 

HANNIBAL  FIPPS  MCCONKEY, 356 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE, Frontispiece 

CLIFTON,  CONNEMARA,  COUNTY  GALWAY,        .        .        .      Page   48 

KILLARY  BAY,  CONNEMARA "        96 

THE  COTTAGE  OF  ROGER  O'TooLE,        .        .        .        .        "       144 

THE  BAY  ACROSS  WHICH  NED  ROWED  WITH  THE  STOLEN 

DINNER, .        .        "      192 

MOLLY  MULLANEY  AT  HER  SPINNING  WHEEL,       .        .        "      240 
GATHERING  DILLISK  AND  SHELL  FISH,  CONNEMARA,      .        "      288 

THE  "  BOREEN  "  TERMINATED  IN  A  Low,  SUBSTANTIAL  FARM- 
HOUSE,         "      336 


FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 


FATHER  TOM. 

A  man  he  was  to  all  his  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich  on  forty  pounds  a  year. 

— Goldsmith. 

History  is  always  repeating  itself.  Goldsmith's  words 
could  just  as  well  have  been  written  of  the  Rev.  Thomas 
McDermott,  who  ruled  over  the  spiritual  affairs  of  the 
people  of  a  strip  of  the  wild  west  coast  of  Galway  and 
the  adjacent  islands  some  years  ago,  as  of  the  celebrated 
vicar  of  Auburn. 

Connemara  lies  on  the  uttermost  verge  of  the  most 
western  island  of  Europe,  and  is  the  last  spot  on  which 
the  sun  rests  before  he  is  lost  to  the  eyes  of  men. 

The  great  luminary  lingers  as  if  loth  to  part  with  this 
last  and  fairest  love  of  his,  and  waits  to  paint  with  crim- 
son and  gold  the  mountains  and  glens  and  bays  and  lakes 
before  he  sinks  slowly  into  his  ocean  bed.  And  that 
bed!  Who  can  describe  it?  Was  ever  couch  so  well 
prepared  to  receive  a  royal  visitor  ? 

Its  covering  is,  first,  crimson  and  gold,  caught  up  with 
diamonds,  and  then  crimson  and  purple  and  gold  and 
diamonds  again,  sparkling  and  glinting  and  changing 
with  every  restless  movement  of  the  royal  guest  until 
sleep  finally  overtakes  him,  and  the  moon  comes  sailing 
along  ready  to  keep  guard  over  his  slumbers. 


8  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

The  moon  is  an  artist,  too,  but  her  brushes  are  dipped 
in  silver,  and  she  uses  them  with  more  sparing  hand. 
Under  her  touch,  the  mountains  and  glens  and  lakes  and 
bays  take  on  an  unearthly  beauty.  Connemara  is  the 
same,  yet  not  the  same ;  under  the  sun's  triumphant  color- 
ing one  glories  in  her  physical  loveliness,  but  the  moon 
has  shown  us  that  she  has  a  soul,  and  we  can  hear  her 
heart-beats. 

Ah,  she  is  telling  her  story  now  to  even  the  most 
unimaginative — the  story  of  her  youth  and  her  triumphs, 
of  her  loves  and  her  losses,  and  our  hearts  go  out  to  her 
in  a  great  tenderness. 

Connemara  has  shared  in  the  history  of  her  country  to 
a  great  extent,  and  the  moon  is  busy  pointing  out  what 
the  glories  of  the  sun  almost  obscure,  as  too  sad  for  the 
light — the  raths  and  cromlechs  and  hill-forts  and  cahirs 
and  castles.  By  their  ruins  she  is  telling  her  story,  and 
we  needs  must  listen.  We  find  ourselves  counting  the 
bones  and  measuring  the  dust  of  the  warriors  who  lie 
at  rest  under  the  old  monuments — the  men  who  lived  and 
built  and  strove,  so  many  years,  against  an  overwhelming 
destiny — and  we  feel  a  great  pity. 

Are  they  at  rest?  Maybe,  but  the  air  seems  full  of 
them.  One  can  hear  their  ships  grounding  on  the  shore, 
laden  with  the  triumphs  of  the  successful  navigators — 
the  youths  who,  fifteen  hundred  years  before  the  dawn  of 
Christianity,  sailed  the  known  and  unknown  world,  and 
dared  the  Norsemen  in  their  northern  seas,  and  later 
Brendan,  the  navigator  and  missionary,  who  brought 
Christianity  to  the  Germans. 

Ah,  those  were  Irishmen  to  be  proud  of !  Caisleen-no- 
circe  and  Aughanure  castles,  still  in  a  good  state  of 


FATHER  TOM  9 

preservation,  with  their  courtyards  and  huge  towers  and 
drawbridges,  representing  the  once  great  families  of 
O'Conor,  O'Flaherty,  Blake  and  Bourke,  are  peopled 
again  with  fierce  and  busy  warriors.  How  tenderly  the 
moon  deals  with  them,  and  how  fair  are  the  faces  that  are 
peeping  out  at  them  from  the  turreted  windows  overhead 
and  praying  for  their  success ! 

"The  Kingdom  of  Connemara,"  as  it  was  formerly 
styled,  was  almost  inaccessible  and  very  little  known — 
"a  refuge  for  outlaws  where  the  King's  writ  could  not 
run,"  a  great  writer  once  wrote,  but  she  meant  an  Eng- 
lish king. 

The  government  has  now  made  some  fine  roads,  and 
the  railroads  run  from  Galway  to  the  principal  towns, 
but  what  road  has  ever  been  cut  through  these  almost 
impassable  mountains  ? 

This  was  what  we  want  to  come  at — England's  idea  of 
a  people  who  strive  to  hold  their  own — outlaws  of  course 
— and  this  brings  us  to  the  kernel  of  our  story. 

"The  Kingdom  of  Connemara"  was  the  last  strong- 
hold of  proud  outlaws  who  never  gave  in  to  the  ruling 
of  the  "stranger."  They  fought  against  oppression  foot 
to  foot,  and  disputed  possession  inch  by  inch,  and  then 
accepted  poverty  and  liberty  rather  than  the  "permission" 
to  hold  their  estates  under  an  English  right  and  an  Eng- 
lish title. 

These  were  reinforced  by  the  contingent  sent  by  the 
"God-fearing  Cromwell,"  who  drove  defenseless  women 
and  children — those  who  escaped  his  butchery — into  "hell 
or  Connaught,"  because  he  had  promised  their  rich 
estates  to  his  followers. 

Connemara  is  admirably  fitted  for  a  stronghold.     It 


10  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

occupies  the  promontory  between  Killary  and  Galway 
bays  on  the  west  coast  of  Ireland  and  is  bounded  on  the 
east  by  two  great  lakes,  Corrib  and  Mask.  Few  pene- 
trated beyond  these,  and  few  tourists  venture,  even  now, 
beyond  the  beaten  paths,  and  the  real  Connemara,  the 
"Land  of  the  Gael,"  is  little  known  and  its  people  are 
left  undisturbed  in  their  traditions  and  customs  and 
language. 

"The  Irish  Highlands,"  says  Mrs.  Hall,  writing  sixty 
years  ago,  "are  peopled  by  a  brave  and  hardy  race,  at- 
tached, as  all  mountaineers  are,  to  their  wild  hills  and 
glens,  and  retaining  largely  their  original  character, 
though  civilization  has  made  its  way  where  the  invader 
could  never  enter.  Their  habits  and  customs  are  com- 
paratively as  little  changed  as  their  mountains,  lakes  and 
Old  Ocean — the  natural  barriers  by  which  their  kingdom 
is  encompassed."  Mrs.  Hall  forgets  that  these  High- 
landers are  the  sons  of  princes  and  must  necessarily  re- 
tain something  of  the  bravery  as  well  as  the  courtesy  of 
their  forefathers. 

Life  was  hard  for  the  ancestors  of  the  fishermen  and 
farmers  who  tried  to  wrest  a  living  from  the  mountains 
and  the  sea,  but  few  thought  of  seeking  new  fields,  and 
those  who  did  returned  to  die  and  leave  their  bones 
among  their  kin.  Those  ancestors  are  not  dead  in  the 
real  sense  of  the  word,  for  they  live  in  the  hearts  of  their 
descendants.  They  are  talked  of  and  sung  of  and  dreamt 
of  at  each  fireside  from  Killary  to  Galway  bays  and  from 
Lough  Mask  to  Lough  Corrib,  and  they  ran  no  danger  of 
being  forgotten,  even  if  the  story-teller  is  silent,  for  the 
effigies  in  stone  and  marble  lie  around  them  in  the  old 
churchyard,  and  their  monuments  are  the  forts  and  cairns 


FATHER  TOM  11 

and  towers  that  rest  on  every  hillside,  and  tell  the  story 
of  their  resistance  to  tyranny,  better  even  than  song  or 
story. 

Each  Connemara  man  holds  his  head  high,  and  he  has 
reason  for  doing  so.  He  may  be  a  fisherman  depending 
on  the  elements  for  his  breakfast,  or  a  farmer  breaking 
his  heart  over  a  crop  that  would  evoke  a  curse  from  the 
heart  of  a  Roscommon  cotter,  but  he  comes  from  royal 
blood  and  he  knows  it  and  is  deeply  thankful.  He  is 
brave  because  his  ancestors  were  brave,  he  is  hospitable 
because  they  were  hospitable,  and  he  is  courteous  because 
they  were  courteous.  His  dinner  may  consist  of  some 
potatoes  and  a  freshly  caught  salmon,  or  potatoes  and 
milk,  or  potatoes  and  nothing  at  all,  but  he  invites  you  to 
partake  of  it  with  the  dignity  of  a  prince. 

Father  Tom,  who  was  "sthrong  in  th'  Latin,"  told  his 
parishioners  that  Connemara  signified  "bays  of  th'  sea," 
which,  indeed,  was  evident  enough,  as  the  sea  was  plenti- 
ful, and  introduced  itself  into  their  potato-fields  in  every 
conceivable  shape — the  narrowest  body  of  water  being 
called  a  "gap." 

The  mountains  are  nearly  as  numerous  as  the  bays  and, 
though  clothed  with  beauty  even  to  the  water's  edge, 
their  barren  sides  give  but  little  return  for  the  husband- 
man's exertions.  It  takes  twice,  nay  three  times,  as  much 
labor  to  grow  a  potato  or  an  ear  of  wheat  in  Connemara 
as  in  the  rich  and  level  lands  adjoining,  but  the  High- 
landers are  content  with  little. 

When  they  are  not  fishing,  however,  they  are  farming, 
and  when  they  are  doing  neither,  they  are  gathering  the 
kelp  or  burning  it  for  manure,  so  that  time  never  hangs 
heavy  in  Connemara.  The  women's  fingers  keep  pace 


12  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

with  their  tongues  even  when  they  are  busy  gossiping. 
Their  stories  may  grow,  in  their  passage  from  one  to  the 
other,  but  the  long  stockings  which  they  carry  in  their 
hands  are  growing,  too,  and  the  needles  fly  in  and  out 
like  streaks  of  lightning  from  overcharged  clouds  as  they 
pass  over  Dha-Bhean-Dueg. 

Meanwhile,  under  the  ground  where  the  crops  grow 
so  scantily,  the  real  wealth  of  the  district  is  lying,  in 
silver,  copper,  marble,  and  even  gold.  If  there  were 
only  capital  enough  to  mine  for  them,  the  people  need 
not  be  so  poor.  But  being  poor  does  not  keep  the  people 
from  being  happy,  even  in  the  hardest  times.  There  is 
always  a  fresh  batch  of  jokes  to  be  retailed,  or  a  wedding 
to  be  talked  of,  or  a  funeral  in  prospect.  It  may  seem 
strange  to  associate  the  idea  of  death  with  happiness, 
but  in  these  cases,  the  funeral  is  not  theirs  and  there  is 
always  a  chance  of  meeting  friends  and  neighbors  and 
enjoying  one's  self  in  a  round  of  comfortable,  complacent, 
irresponsible  grief  and  gossip.  There  is  an  exception  to 
this,  and  that  is  when  a  fishing-boat  comes  in  bottom-up 
after  a  storm,  telling  its  own  story  of  loss  to  the  widow 
and  orphan. 

There  are  tears  then,  and  lamentations  the  most  poetic 
that  were  ever  sung  or  said  by  poet  or  bard  from  Ossian 
and  Homer  down  to  the  present  day.  Death  by  drowning 
is  the  one  thing  to  be  bitterly  mourned,  for  are  these 
friends  not  taken  away  in  all  their  youth  and  strength, 
without  a  chance  of  saying  a  last  good-by?  Such  fu- 
nerals are  sad  indeed,  the  sadness  being  trebly  augmented 
by  the  presence  of  the  pipers,  with  their  lamentations 
that  are  enough  to  wake  the  dead  from  the  neighboring 
graveyards.  But  when  the  storm  ceases  and  the  treach- 


FATHER  TOM  13 

erous  sea  becomes  calm  again,  and  the  sun  shines  on  the 
beautiful  mountains,  and  the  multitudinous  wild  flowers 
mingle  their  scents  with  the  gorse  and  heather,  the 
people  forget  their  woe  and  are  happy  again,  until  the 
next  boat  comes  in  bottom-up  and  revives  their  grief. 

If  few  entered  Connemara  by  the  east,  the  shores  of 
the  Atlantic  were  always  open,  and  Connemara  girls  are 
noted  for  their  beauty.  Fishermen  from  Donegal  and 
Antrim,  from  Scotland  and  Spain  and  France  were  often 
wafted  there,  and,  with  the  freemasonry  of  their  craft, 
made  themselves  acquainted  quickly.  They  came  again 
and  again,  attracted  by  the  hospitality  and  friendship, 
and  incidentally  the  pretty  girls. 

The  time  came  when  these  visits  ended  in  weddings 
and  the  visitors  stayed  indefinitely.  Thus  a  mixed  race 
sprang  up,  and  French  and  Spanish  names  were  heard 
with  those  indigenous  to  the  soil,  and  those  whose  face? 
bore  the  coloring  of  France  and  Spain  mended  the  nets 
and  sailed  the  blue  waters  in  search  of  fish,  and  grad- 
ually became  more  Irish  than  the  Irish  themselves. 

When  Father  Tom  McDermott  was  sent  to  Connemara 
fresh  from  college,  much  regret  was  indulged  in  by  his 
friends,  who  considered  the  time  spent  there  as  so  much 
of  his  promising  career  thrown  away.  The  young  priest 
agreed  with  them  at  first,  and  though  he  admired  his 
surroundings  very  much,  counted  the  hours  to  his  recall. 
It  came  in  due  course,  but  Father  Tom,  as  he  was  soon 
called,  was  not  ready.  He  asked  for  an  extension  of 
time. 

Two  years  more  went  by,  but  he  was  never  quite  ready 
to  leave.  His  curly  black  hair  was  mixed  with  gray, 
and  his  rosy  cheeks  had  taken  on  the  shade  that  shows  a 


16  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

go  without  seeing  their  friends  and  neighbors  from  one 
week's  end  to  the  other,  and  then  only  at  Mass  on  Sun- 
day, or  for  a  few  minutes  outside  the  church  door  after 
the  services  were  over,  when  was  gleaned  all  the  news 
of  the  week.  A  Sunday  in  Connemara  was  a  pleasant 
day ;  it  meant  not  only  a  visit  to  the  church,  but  a  day  of 
rest  and  a  sight  of  one's  sweetheart  or  neighbor  in  their 
best  clothes  and  with  their  best  company  manners.  It 
meant  also  a  sight  of  the  old  neighbors,  and  long-dead- 
and-gone  friends,  or  rather  their  resting-places  in  the 
moss-covered  graveyards,  where  the  old  inhabitants  were 
fast  going  to  join  them. 

In  those  days  good  roads  were  few,  and  only  a  disin- 
terested and  unselfish  man  could  keep  pace,  as  Father 
Tom  did,  with  the  demands  on  his  time  that  must  neces- 
sarily arise  from  such  a  scattered  district.  He  knew  all 
the  short  cuts  and  the  mountain  paths,  and  his  pony  was 
never  known  to  stumble.  He  also  knew  the  caves  better 
than  did  the  gaugers  who  were  often  on  the  search  for 
private  distilleries  and  were  as  often  lost;  and  he  was 
as  skillful  in  handling  an  oar,  or  guiding  a  corrach  from 
point  to  point,  as  the  humblest  of  his  parishioners. 

We  will  not  attempt  to  give  the  full  history  of  Father 
Tom's  useful  life,  nor  apologize  for  naming  our  sketches 
after  this  good,  if  not  great,  man;  they  speak  of  his 
people,  and  when  we  speak  of  them,  we  speak  of  him,  for 
he  was  closely  identified  with  every  soul  in  his  parish. 

Father  Tom  was  a  man  who  "garnered  not  nor  gath- 
ered into  barns."  His  house  was  always  open  to  the  un- 
fortunate and  the  stranger,  and  not  having  any  bank 
account  when  he  died,  his  loss  was  felt  as  keenly  by  his 
relatives  as  by  his  friends.  No  one  wanted  to  read  his 


FATHER  TOM  17 

will,  and  he  was  carried  to  his  grave  near  the  sea  by 
his  parishioners,  who  watered  the  hallowed  spot  with 
their  tears. 

Peace  be  to  your  ashes,  Father  Tom!  You  did  good 
and  not  evil  all  the  days  of  your  life. 

A  man  may  die  and  be  mourned  (while  the  clods  are 
falling  on  his  coffin),  and  when  the  mourners  have  gone 
home,  there  may  be  a  faithful  heart  or  two  who  will  think 
of  him  with  tears — for  awhile — and  keep  his  grave  green 
for  awhile ;  then  the  weeds  overrun  it  and  the  children  run 
over  it,  and  even  the  name  of  the  man  who  once  inhabited 
the  body  that  is  moldering  into  dust  beneath  their  feet 
is  forgotten.  He  may  have  been  a  Bishop  and  worn  a 
ring,  or  a  man  who  founded  a  family,  or  a  merchant  whose 
ships  sailed  the  main — it's  all  the  same;  his  day  of  ob- 
livion has  come. 

There  is  one  man,  however,  who  has  lived  in  the  hearts 
of  two  generations,  whose  grave  can  be  seen  far  out 
at  sea  and  is  always  saluted  by  the  fishermen,  with  bare 
heads,  as  they  round  the  curve,  no  matter  what  the 
weather  may  be.  The  gravestone  reads  thus :  "Reverend 
Thomas  McDermott.  Requiescat  in  Pace." 

Land  of  the  Gael,  it  is  hard  to  describe  thee!  Land 
of  the  wonderful  Twelve  Pins  (Beana),  whose  tops  al- 
most touch  the  clouds,  and  whose  variety  of  texture  and 
shade  can  never  be  fully  told,  who  can  describe  thee? 
Thy  glories  of  sea  and  sky,  mountain  and  bay,  are  eternal, 
and  the  spectator  is  mute  with  surprise  and  awe ! 


18  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 


ORDAINED  FOR  CONNEMARA, 

"Lay  me  down  for  awhile." 

"Certainly,  there's  plenty  o'  time.  Sure  it's  early  in 
th'  day." 

"You're  sure  we  won't  be  late?"  The  voice  was  very 
feeble  and  the  question  ended  in  a  sigh. 

"Dead  sure.  Arrah,  th'  sun  is  but  just  peepin'  over  th' 
hills  an'  sorra  a  soul  afoot  but  ourselves.  Take  yer  time, 
acushla,  take  yer  time." 

"An5  th'  same  sun  is  shinin'  right  in  her  eyes.  Come, 
we'll  lay  her  in  th'  shade." 

"An'  catch  all  th'  could  breeze." 

"Wrap  her  up  warm  an'  not  a  bit  o'  harm  a  sough  of 
wind'll  do  her." 

"It's  a  long  time  since  I  saw  the  Twelve  Pins  and  the 
sun  shining  over  them." 

"It  is,  alanna,  but  it  won't  be  so  long  agin,  plaze  God." 

"In  the  spirit  perhaps,  never  in  the  flesh.  Oh,  I 
wonder  if  God  will  allow  me  to  see  Connemara  ?" 

"  Whisth,  whisth !  Don't  be  talkin'  about  death.  Who 
knows  what  th'  Lord  will  do  th'  day?" 

"The  Lord  has  granted  all  I  asked  of  Him.  Blessed 
be  His  name.  I  ask  no  more.  His  will  be  done." 

"I  see  th'  people  startin'  from  th'  glen  beyant.  We'll 
tak'  another  little  jaunt,  an'  rest  agin  be  th'  big  ash." 


ORDAINED  FOR  CONNEMARA  19 

"Lay  back,  McQueeney,  lay  back;  'tis  my  turn  now 
to  carry  her." 

"God  bless  you,  my  friends  all,  you  are  very  kind." 

"Whisth  now,  whisth!  Ye'll  all  have  yer  turn,  if  ye 
only  have  patience." 

"The  road  is  long  and  crooked,  like  the  path  that  leads 
to  heaven." 

"Aisy,  boys,  aisy;  swing  th'  litter,  an'  there's  no  fear 
of  th'  joults — arrah,  do  ye  think  ye're  carryin'  a  sack  o' 
potatoes  ?  Hould  yer  ind  this  way,  man,  an'  'twill  swing 
like  a  cradle.  Aisy,  aisy,  aisy — that's  right." 

We  had  forgotten  that  Sunday  was  so  near,  when  we 
left  our  specimen  boxes  on  that  delightful  spur,  on  which 
we  had  botanized  nearly  the  whole  of  the  week.  It  was 
our  best  excuse  for  returning  there,  which  we  did  in 
spite  of  the  landlady's  assurance  that  they  would  not  be 
touched;  and  we  soon  stretched  ourselves  in  lazy  enjoy- 
ment of  the  day,  and  of  the  way  it  was  observed  by  the 
hospitable  people  of  the  surrounding  valley. 

On  our  left,  like  a  gray  mist,  lay  the  sea  and  the  Twelve 
Pins,  a  range  of  mountains,  with  their  tops  lost  in  the 
clouds ;  to  the  right,  the  dim  banks  of  Lough  Corrib,  and 
the  early  morning  sun  turning  everything  into  gold. 

The  scent  of  the  heath  and  the  gorse,  the .  fragrance 
of  the  many  wild  flowers,  the  lazy  drone  of  the  mountain- 
bee,  the  sharp  and  clear  trill  of  the  lark  and  the  black- 
bird, that,  contrary  to  the  known  reputation  of  the  wnole 
region,  seemed  to  be  inhospitably  inclined  towards  us, 
and  desirous  of  ousting  us  from  our  position,  as  being 
too  close  to  their  nests,  might  easily  have  lulled  us  to 
sleep;  but  our  eyes  refused  to  close  on  the  interesting 
and  novel  moving  panorama  before  them. 


20  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

The  tide  was  out,  and  the  innumerable  little  boats  were 
either  lying  high  and  dry  on  the  mainland  or  bobbing 
up  and  down  on  the  placid  water,  within  the  limits  allowed 
by  the  long  rope.  The  crowds  of  scarlet-skirted  shell- 
fish gatherers  and  the  dillisk  gleaners  were  nowhere  to 
be  seen,  or  if  seen,  were  hardly  recognizable  in  their  blue 
Sunday  cloaks  and  snow-white  caps,  setting  out  on  their 
long  journey  to  the  little  white  chapel  to  the  left. 

They  came  by  twos  and  threes,  the  old  walking  slowly 
and  carefully,  the  young  jauntily  and  laughingly,  but 
with  a  certain  reserve  in  honor  of  the  day.  They  came 
from  all  sides,  literally  pouring  from  behind  hills  and 
beneath  them,  from  sheltered  cabins  and  more  pretentious 
farmhouses,  walking,  riding,  driving.  The  modes  of 
conveyance  were  all  the  way  from  a  neat  side-car,  on 
which  well-dressed  people  sat  back  to  back,  to  a  dilapi- 
dated cart  tied  with  ropes,  with  a  feather-bed  covered 
with  a  patchwork  quilt  of  many  colors,  as  a  substitute 
for  springs,  which  moved  slowly,  carrying  the  old  and 
infirm  members  of  the  family.  There  were  a  few  pld- 
fashioned  covered  carriages  of  the  native  "gentry,"  who 
had  remained  true  to  the  "old  faith"  and  had  returned 
early  from  the  London  season,  or  through  want  of  money 
or  from  choice  preferred  to  stay  at  home. 

These  met  with  respectful  greetings  from  the  country 
people,  who  have  exaggerated  respect  for  "blood"  and 
none  at  all  for  parvenus  or,  as  they  term  them,  "up- 
starts." New-comers,  who  bought  out  old  family  seats, 
have  been  mystified  at  the  attitude  of  even  the  poorest 
in  this  strange  district,  where  money  meant  so  little, 
and  family  everything.  They  saw  the  pitying  smile,  if 
they  failed  to  catch  the  remark:  "That  ould  mushroon 


MOLLY    MULLANEY   AT   HER   SPINNING   WHEEL. 


ORDAINED  FOR  CONNEMARA  21 

has  plenty  av  change.  Why  not?  Sure  he  made  it 
ahint  th'  counter."  And  this  criticism  was  being  passed 
at  the  supreme  moment  when  the  new-comers  imagined 
they  were  impressing  the  country  people  with  their  style. 

The  number  of  church-goers  was  steadily  increasing, 
but  nearly  all  were  journeying  in  the  direction  of  the  little 
white  chapel,  in  a  glen  and  near  the  foot  of  a  precipitous 
mountain.  It  was  surmounted  by  a  cross.  This  we  took 
to  be  a  Catholic  Church,  the  Protestant  or  state  church 
being  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant.  There  were  but 
a  few  wending  their  way  there  in  comparison  with  the 
crowd  going  to  the  chapel.  One  could  almost  guess  who 
they  were  and  their  standing  in  society ;  surely  those  now 
passing  were  the  parson  and  his  clerk,  Mrs.  Kilfoyle  and 
her  maid,  and  the  Scotch  steward  of  the  absentee  Lord 
Scattergold. 

Our  attention  was  here  called  to  a  small  band  of  men 
carrying  a  litter  slowly.  We  thought  at  first  that  it  was 
a  funeral  party,  but  the  burden  they  were  carrying  had 
no  resemblance  to  a  coffin,  and  we  waited  with  the  curi- 
osity born  of  happy  idleness  for  accident  to  throw  the 
meaning  of  all  this  in  our  way.  The  party  was  soon 
reinforced  by  others  and  again  by  others,  till  the  small 
band  became  a  multitude,  but  a  silent,  respectful  one. 
The  cortege  stopped  occasionally,  laid  down  the  litter, 
and  seemed  to  administer  to  the  person  who  was  being 
carried. 

Our  curiosity  was  now  at  white  heat,  and  it  is  hard  to 
tell  to  what  extent  we  would  have  gone  to  gratify  it,  had 
not  a  lucky  chance  sent  two  pretty  young  girls  to  finish 
their  toilet  within  a  few  feet  of  us.  They  were  in  full 
Sunday  regalia,  with  the  exception  of  shoes  and  stock- 


22  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

ings,  which  they  carried  under  their  arms,  as  was  cus- 
tomary, to  be  donned  when  in  view  of  the  church.  The 
place  they  chose  for  this  pleasant  duty  was  shaded  by  a 
creeping  vine  and  hemmed  in  by  a  jutting  rock,  and 
would  have  answered  as  a  boudoir  for  the  queen  of  the 
fairies.  After  they  had  washed  the  dust  of  the  road 
from  their  feet,  in  a  little  pool  made  by  the  recent  shower 
in  a  crevice  in  the  rock,  they  unrolled  their  long,  white 
stockings  and  examined  the  precious  shoes  carefully, 
dusting  them  with  great  precaution. 

We  made  known  our  proximity  by  a  prolonged  "Hem 
— hem,"  but  the  girls  were  so  wrapped  up  in  themselves 
and  their  foot-gear  that  they  failed  to  hear  us.  Their 
laughter,  which  spoke  of  light  hearts  and  youth,  was 
borne  back  to  them  in  faint  echoes,  and  so  they  failed 
for  the  second  time  to  hear  our  warning  coughs. 

"Hurry  up,"  said  one,  "or  we'll  miss  Mass." 

"It's  a  good  thing  I  didn't  wear  my  shoes,"  said  the 
other,  completely  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  them. 
"Four  miles  of  a  stony  road  wouldn't  lave  a  bit  of  them 
together." 

"Well,  no  one  saw  us,  anyway;  but  hurry  up,  there's 
th'  McGowns  an'  th'  Delaneys.  There's  th'  Henrys 
now.  They're  bringin'  her,  they're  bringin'  her !  Come 
on." 

The  last  words  decided  us.  What  were  they  bringing 
and  who  were  they?  We  all  coughed  in  chorus  and 
rushed  to  the  front.  The  girls  screamed  and  were  pre- 
paring to  run  when  a  sight  of  us  changed  their  pro- 
gram. 

"Oh,  they're  the  Americans,"  said  the  prettier  of  the 
girls,  coolly  drawing  on  her  stockings  and  completely  re- 
assured. 


ORDAINED  FOR  CONNEMARA  23 

After  wishing  them  a  polite  "good-morning,"  we  in- 
quired who  the  occupant  of  the  litter  was. 

"Mrs.  Henry,  of  course,"  was  the  reply. 

We  were  as  wise  as  before,  but  we  did  not  parade  our 
ignorance.  We  simply  supposed  aloud  that  they  were 
taking  her  to  the  church. 

"To  the  church!"  repeated  the  girls,  in  consternation; 
"no,  no,  to  the  chapel.  Her  son,  Father  Patrick  Henry, 
is  going  to  say  his  first  Mass." 

"Then  she  is  sick?"  we  ventured. 

"Sick?"  echoed  the  girls,  in  surprise  at  our  ignorance; 
and  then  the  prettier  one  continued:  "Why,  she's  dyin' 
these  five  years  and  is  likely  to  die  on  her  way  to  the 
chapel.  Her  faith  is  just  keepin'  her  alive.  She's  asked 
the  Lord  for  the  life  till  after  her  son's  first  Mass,  an' 
then  she's  willin'  to  go." 

We  thanked  the  girls  for  the  information  and  returned 
to  our  mossy  retreat.  We  were  not  content,  however,  for 
the  spirit  of  the  people  had  communicated  itself  to  us, 
and  we,  too,  wished  to  be  witnesses  of  the  climax  of  this 
wonderful  story  of  faith,  hope  and  love.  Who  had  not 

heard  of  the  student  who  had  covered  B with 

glory  by  the  ease  with  which  he  had  carried  off  all  the 
prizes  and  honors  worth  speaking  of  at  the  university  ? 

We  had  heard  much  of  him,  together  with  other  gossip 
of  the  glen,  when  we  had  called  at  the  mountain  cabins 
for  goat's-milk  and  oat-cake.  This  student  had  also  been 
made  the  subject  of  a  newspaper  article  in  the  Dublin 
Gazette,  in  which  he  was  spoken  of  as  a  most  wonderful 
young  man  and  the  coming  orator,  and  it  was  insinuated 
that  the  Bishop  had  made  him  most  advantageous  offers, 
which  he  had  respectfully,  but  firmly,  declined.  The 


24  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

reason  given  for  this  was  the  desire  he  expressed  of 
living  and  working  among  the  obscure  villagers  in  the 
wilds  of  Connemara. 

The  desire  to  see  this  young  man  was  growing  on  us, 
and  we  were  soon  mingling  in  the  crowds  that  were  now 
darkening  the  hills  on  all  sides. 

The  young  priest  was  the  son  of  a  widow  in  strait- 
ened circumstances,  who  had  sacrificed  everything  and 
labored  day  and  night  to  give  her  son  the  education  he 
desired.  His  father's  family,  who  lived  in  the  city,  and 
whose  attention  was  attracted  later  by  his  remarkable 
progress,  condescended  to  call  on  his  mother  (the  despised 
fishermaiden  who  had  entered  their  family  by  accident) 
and  offered  to  defray  the  remainder  of  the  expenses  at- 
tending his  college  course.  She  accepted  gladly  for  the 
sake  of  her  boy,  but  for  her  the  help  had  come  too  late. 

To  understand  the  matter  thoroughly  and  realize  the 
union  that  existed  between  mother  and  son,  we  must 
recall  a  conversation  that  took  place  there  years  before, 
when  she  was  "given  up  for  death"  by  the  two  authorities 
on  the  subject — the  doctor  and  the  priest. 

"Return  to  your  college,  my  son.  I  will  not  die  till 
God's  good  time.  I  shall  live  till  I  see  the  sacred  robes 
on  my  boy.  I  shall  not  die  until  I  receive  the  Holy 
Eucharist  from  my  son's  anointed  hands,  and  hear  from 
his  lips  the  blessed  and  releasing  words,  'Go,  the  Mass  is 
finished.'  " 

He  obeyed  her,  but  the  end  often  seemed  very  near. 
To  those  who  ventured  to  speak  in  loving  words  of  the 
immediate  necessity  of  preparing  for  death,  her  answer 
was  ever  the  same. 

"I  shall  live  to  hear  my  boy  say  Mass.     The  Lord  has 


ORDAINED  FOR  CONNEMARA  25 

willed  it  so.  He  will  not  take  from  me  the  desire  of  my 
heart." 

From  death's  very  door  she  was  brought  back  again 
and  again,  and  under  the  kind,  ministering  hands  of  her 
neighbors,  revived  to  hear  that  her  gifted  son  had  reached 
the  last  rung  of  the  ladder  that  was  to  authorize  him  to 
preach  the  Gospel  to  the  people. 

He  was  a  good  young  man,  as  earnest  men  preparing 
for  the  ministry  are  before  the  world  taints  them.  He 
had  noble  ideas  of  right,  and  lofty  ideas  of  his  future 
duties.  He  loved  his  mother  as  only  a  man  can  who  has 
never  known  the  care  of  any  other  relative,  and  he  wished 
to  please  her  in  all  things.  It  was  therefore  left  for  this 
mother,  who  was  never  to  rise  from  her  couch  of  pain, 
to  determine  the  course  his  ministrations  should  take, 
and  the  people  who  most  needed  his  services.  It  is  hard 
for  one  to  remain  deaf  when  the  whole  world  is  singing 
one's  praises.  Perhaps  his  mother,  with  the  prophetic 
eyes  of  love,  made  clearer  by  approaching  dissolution, 
saw  the  coming  temptations  and  the  needs  of  the  people 
(often  forgotten) — the  people  who  dwell  where  the 
mountains  greet  the  sea. 

The  young  man  stood  by  his  mother's  bed,  and  for  a 
moment  he  thought  all  was  over.  He  cried  out  in  grief, 
but  she  revived  and  motioned  to  be  left  alone  with  him. 

"My  time  is  getting  very  short,  my  son,"  she  said. 
"The  Lord  has  been  good  to  me  to  allow  me  to  live  so 
long.  I  am  going,  but  I  will  be  near  you.  You  have 
been  the  light  of  my  eyes,  the  joy  of  my  heart.  You 
have  not  one  thing  to  reproach  yourself  with.  You  have 
never  knowingly  given  me  a  moment's  pain.  May  God 
bless  you  and  your  work  forever  and  ever.  Next  month 


26  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

you  will  take  the  vows  of  priesthood.  I  have  looked 
forward  to  that  day.  In  all  my  sorrow  it  has  been  my 
comfort  that  God  has  called  you  to  the  Church.  I  ask 
only  one  request  of  you.  If  you  grant  it,  I  shall  die 
happy." 

"Anything,  mother,  anything;  I  promise  you  any- 
thing," said  the  young  man,  brokenly. 

"I  want  you,  my  son,  to  stay  in  Connemara.  Stay  with 
the  people  that  your  mother  loved;  stay  with  them  and 
comfort  them  and  teach  them.  They  have  many  sorrows 
and  have  seen  much  injustice.  Make  the  way  light  for 
them.  Never  be  hard  on  the  poor  in  dues — they  have 
dues  enough,  poor  things.  Carry  neither  purse  nor  scrip, 
nor  the  second  coat.  Do  not  be  concerned  for  this  world, 
nor  for  money.  You  will  always  have  sufficient  from 
day  to  day.  Stay  with  the  people  of  Connemara." 

With  the  plaudits  of  the  judges  of  oratory  still  ringing 
in  his  ears,  the  smiling  approval  of  his  Bishop,  the  ad- 
miring attention  of  crowded  houses,  and  the  cheers  of 
his  class-mates  who  unanimously  chose  him  as  their 
valedictorian,  he  did  not  hesitate.  He  promised  every- 
thing. 

His  mother,  with  the  clairvoyance  of  love,  read  his 
thoughts;  she  knew  that  men  of  rare  gifts  are  kept  in 
great  cities,  in  cathedrals  where  the  rich  and  educated 
could  appreciate  them,  while  often  the  people  who  really 
needed  them  were  poorly  served. 

"Never  mind  the  rich,  my  son ;  they  are  well  cared  for. 
The  poor,  the  boys  'who  go  down  to  the  sea  in  boats,' 
they  need  you.  The  men  who  sow  and  reap  not,  who 
are  burdened  with  the  cares  of  life,  whose  sons  go  forth 
to  war  and  never  return,  whose  daughters  go  to  the  ends 


ORDAINED  FOR  CONNEMARA  27 

of  the  earth  to  work  for  strangers  with  no  prospect  of 
ever  returning — these  are  the  souls  who  need  you.  Stay 
with  them;  stay  in  Connemara." 

Do  you  wonder  that  he  promised — that  he  went  to  his 
ordination  with  this  resolve  and  this  request  on  his  lips? 
It  was  granted  with  some  surprise  that  such  a  man — a 
man  that  the  world  delighted  to  honor — should  choose  to 
bury  himself  in  the  wilds  by  the  sea.  He  had  only  one 
answer:  "It  is  my  mother's  wish." 

The  news  of  his  ordination  came  fast,  even  in  those 
days.  His  mother's  wish  was  about  to  be  gratified.  He 

was  to  say  his  first  Mass  in  the  little  chapel  in  B , 

and  return  later  as  an  assistant  to  Father  Tom  McDer- 
mott.  The  news  went  to  the  four  corners  of  the  parish — • 
through  the  glen  and  the  beach  and  the  mountains,  and 
all  were  making  preparations  to  come. 

His  mother  was  to  be  in  the  midst  of  the  people,  and 
hear  the  words  of  consecration  uttered  by  his  lips.  Would 
she  live  so  long?  Surely,  surely!  They  were  going  to 
carry  her  by  easy  stages,  not  by  carriage  or  cart  or  side- 
car— oh,  no,  any  of  these  might  "joult"  her — but  by  the 
hands  of  her  old  friends  and  neighbors.  And  so,  wrapped 
up  lovingly  and  tenderly,  she  was  placed  on  a  stretcher, 
and  through  the  dewy  freshness  of  a  sweet  June  morn- 
ing, was  carried  by  relays  of  men.  "Not  but  that  one 
man  could  have  done  th'  whole  thing,"  said  honest  Pat 
Lucas,  "fer  she  was  as  light  as  a  bird,  but  everyone 
wanted  to  help." 

It  was  a  long  time  since  Mrs.  Henry  had  seen  the 
mountains  and  the  sea,  except  through  the  small  windows 
of  her  cottage.  The  sight  of  them  seemed  to  revive  her, 
and  she  occasionally  begged  of  her  carriers  to  lay  her 


28  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

down  in  some  spot  hallowed  by  the  memory,  not  of  her 
own,  but  her  son's  childhood. 

Here  was  the  mountain  ash,  into  which  he  had  climbed 
to  hide,  in  play,  from  his  mother,  and  these  were  the 
very  branches  between  which  he  had  pushed  and  cried 
"Boo!"  after  she  had  looked  long  and  was  beginning 
to  fret.  How  happy  she  was  to  find  him !  The  thought 
of  it  now  made  her  heart  beat  anew. 

Here  was  the  little  fort  in  which  he  had  marshaled 
his  imaginary  soldiers,  and  here  again  was  the  point 
from  which  she  had  given  him  his  first  dip  in  the  sea. 
She  was  looking  on  all  these  things  for  the  last  time.  She 
knew  her  hour  was  quite  near,  but  she  thanked  God  that 
He  had  spared  her  for  this  day. 

When  they  reached  the  chapel,  it  was  full  to  over- 
flowing. Her  son,  in  a  cassock  and  surplice,  was  stand- 
ing by  the  altar  rail,  awaiting  them.  They  placed  the 
sick  woman  on  a  couch  in  front  and  shielded  her  from 
the  sun  and  the  glances  of  the  curious.  For  awhile  she 
lay  so  still  they  thought  she  was  dead ;  but  when  one  of 
her  attendants  stooped  to  moisten  her  lips,  she  shook  her 
head.  Everybody  understood  why.  Was  she  not  going 
to  receive  the  Sacred  Host  from  the  hands  of  her  son  ? 

Her  eyes  were  full  of  joy  as  he  stood  for  a  moment  be- 
fore her  in  his  robes.  As  they  were  lighting  the  candles 
and  making  everything  ready  for  the  service,  he  knelt 
down  to  speak  his  last  words  to  her,  and  the  people 
thought  none  the  less  of  him  because  of  the  tears  that 
silently  chased  one  another  down  his  cheeks.  His  mother 
laid  her  cold  hand  on  the  dark  head  before  her,  and  said : 

"You  have  the  blessing  of  God,  my  son,  and  now  take 
your  mother's.  Remember  your  promise,  and  when,  at 


ORDAINED  FOR  CONNEMARA  29 

the  consecration,  you  are  face  to  face  with  Jesus  Christ, 
ask  Him  to  bless  the  brave  boys  of  Connemara,  and  don't 
forget  also  to  say  a  word  for  your  poor  mother." 

There  was  not  a  dry  eye  in  the  church,  and  bursts  of 
hysterical  weeping  were  checked  by  the  stern  commands 
of  those  in  authority.  The  service  commenced  amid 
solemn  silence.  Nothing  could  be  heard  but  the  clear, 
low  tones  of  the  young  priest.  The  air  was  heavy  with 
the  breath  of  flowers — the  mountain-blossoms  that  he  re- 
membered so  well.  They  were  banked  everywhere — on 
the  altar,  on  the  steps,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  sick  woman's 
couch. 

The  first  impulse  of  the  Irish  is  usually  a  kind  one. 
As,  led  by  an  overpowering  curiosity,  we  became  by  de- 
grees the  center  of  a  frieze-coated  crowd  as  impregnable 
as  the  rock  of  Gibraltar,  we  found  many  pitying  glances 
thrown  in  our  direction.  We  were  recognized  as  the 
Americans  who  were  always  gathering  wild  flowers  and 
putting  them  in  boxes. 

A  stout  female  in  a  large  blue  cloak  and  snowy  cap 
with  huge  borders  soon  came  to  our  rescue  and  drew  us 
from  our  perilous  position,  and  we  found  seats  well  up 
in  front.  There  were  few  seats  in  this  rude  mountain 
chapel,  and  these  were  reserved  for  the  gentry  and  the 
infirm  and  old,  the  bulk  of  the  worshipers  standing  or 
kneeling  during  the  different  parts  of  the  service.  Our 
position  became  a  distinguished  one,  but  any  embarrass- 
ment due  to  this  sudden  elevating  was  lost  in  the  over- 
whelming interest  we  felt  in  everything  around  us.  The 
Irish  are  intensely  emotional,  and  show  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage in  dramatic  situations  such  as  the  present  one, 
which  was  indeed  the  climax  to  the  deepest  and  most 
beautiful  story  that  ever  was  told  on  stage  or  pulpit. 


30  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

This  woman,  who  had  sacrificed  everything  to  educate 
a  worthy  and  extraordinarily  gifted  son  for  the  priest- 
hood, had  been  living  for  years  on  the  sole  hope  of  seeing 
him  officiate  at  the  altar.  Her  life  had  been  one  long  sac- 
rifice, and  had  hung  often  by  a  thread  that  apparently  a 
breath  might  sever,  yet  she  had  been  miraculously  spared 
to  see  the  desire  of  her  heart  fulfilled,  and  now  the  son 
of  this  devoted  mother  was  about  to  sacrifice  in  turn  the 
possibility  of  a  brilliant  career  for  the  people  his  mother 
loved  and  of  whom  she  was  a  part. 

The  service  proceeded  amid  the  most  intense  silence 
and  solemnity.  The  many  slight  noises  that  seem  to  be 
inseparable  from  a  large  gathering  of  many  people,  were 
altogether  absent.  So  deep  was  the  hush  that  the  distant 
chirruping  of  birds,  the  faint  lapping  of  waves  against 
the  shore,  and  the  soft  sighing  of  the  wind  among  the 
trees  seemed  like  an  accompaniment  to  the  low-toned 
prayers  of  the  priest  and  in  harmony  with  the  spirit  of 
the  meeting. 

At  the  Gospel  the  young  celebrant  faced  the  people, 
his  tall,  slight  form  towering  against  a  background  of 
lights  and  mountain-blossoms  that  covered  the  plain  little 
altar,  as  he  had  towered  among  the  stately  draperies  of 
the  Cathedral.  Prior  to  his  ordination  he  had  been  a 
marked  man  and  a  favorite  with  his  Bishop,  who  saw  in 
him  the  coming  "Bossuet"  He  had  also  been  a  favorite 
with  fashionable  worshipers,  when  he  assisted  on  special 
occasions,  as  deacon,  before  them;  and  they  prophesied 
great  things  for  the  "handsome  and  gifted  young  man 
from  the  West  Coast."  All  this  and  more  I  learned  from 
the  low  murmurs  of  the  people  around  me.  He  spoke, 
and  I  recognized  the  marks.  He  was  an  orator,  "born, 


ORDAINED  FOR  CONNEMARA  31 

not  made,"  and  the  people  knew  it,  too.  His  words  were 
few  and  to  the  point  and  drew  tears  from  many  eyes. 

He  would  have  commanded  attention  anywhere.  Tall 
and  straight  as  a  poplar,  with  the  head  of  a  genius  and 
the  face  of  a  saint,  he  was  a  man  not  easy  to  forget.  He 
had  removed  his  outer  vestment  and  stood  in  simple  cas- 
sock and  surplice  before  the  people  who  loved  him  and 
who  had  seen  him  as  a  rosy-cheeked  boy,  serving  Mass 
at  the  same  altar.  He  had  of  course  changed  much  in  the 
last  few  years.  The  severe  course  of  study,  the  priva- 
tions incident  to  a  slender  purse,  the  fasts  and  vigils 
attending  a  life  of  holiness,  had  left  their  tracings  on  the 
wide,  intellectual  brow,  giving  the  chaste  countenance 
a  look  of  high  purpose  and  strong  resolution,  which  is 
seldom  apparent  in  the  rich  and  pampered  student. 

It  was  at  the  consecration  that  the  climax  of  emotion 
was  reached.  The  intense  silence  that  reigned  made  it 
possible  to  hear  the  low  but  solemn  words.  The  silence 
was  broken  by  a  faint  cry  from  the  dying  woman.  It 
ended  in  a  long-drawn  sigh.  Everyone  was  startled, 
and  all  devotion  was  temporarily  suspended  in  the  grati- 
fication of  an  overpowering  curiosity.  All  eyes  were 
directed  toward  the  couch  at  the  foot  of  the  altar,  those 
in  the  rear  straining  their  necks  and  standing  on  tiptoe. 

"She's  gone,  poor  thing!  She's  gone  at  last!"  was 
whispered  on  all  sides,  interspersed  with  "Too  bad  en- 
tirely that  she  didn't  live  till  th'  end  of  Mass,"  and  "It 
will  be  hard  on  th'  poor  boy  to  finish,  now  that  he  knows 
what's  behind  him,  but  shure  he  must." 

In  a  few  moments  the  young  celebrant  turned  to  give 
Communion.  He  had  been  so  absorbed  in  his  devotion 
as  seemingly  not  to  be  aware  of  the  undercurrent  of  dis- 

3 


32  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

tress  around  him.  The  people  tightened  their  lips  and 
shook  their  heads.  He  was  to  have  given  his  mother 
Communion.  Alas !  He  would  know  the  bitter  truth 
now!  The  kind-hearted  people  wept  for  very  sympathy 
with  his  disappointment. 

"  Poor  lad,  poor  lad !  God  help  him !  What  will  he 
do?  Will  he  descend  the  steps  and  extend  the  Sacred 
Host  to  a  corpse?  Will  no  one  tell  him  in  mercy,  will 
no  one  tell  him?" 

But  no  one  stirred.  There  were  others  to  "receive," 
but  his  mother  was  to  come  first,  and  all  kept  their  seats. 

He  was  descending  the  altar  steps,  the  chalice  in  his 
hand.  He  came  slowly,  his  eyes  bent  in  prayer.  Oh, 
God !  Would  no  one  tell  him  in  time  ?  No,  not  one. 
He  was  there.  Oh,  God!  Now,  now ! 

It  was  too  much  for  the  excitable  people,  who  had  re- 
strained themselves  so  long.  The  barriers  were  swept 
away  and  an  involuntary  wail  of  sorrow  broke  forth,  but 
it  was  soon  changed  to  a  paean  of  surprise  and  joy.  The 
sick  woman  was  sitting  up,  supported  by  her  attendants, 
her  eyes  shining  with  love  and  devotion,  her  hands 
clasped,  and  her  lips  moving  in  prayer. 

"Hurrah!  Glory  be  to  God,  she's  alive,  she's  alive!" 
was  whispered  from  one  to  another  in  the  relief  of  their 
hearts,  and  only  for  the  intense  respect  the  Irish  have 
for  anything  sacred  they  would  have  cried  aloud.  The 
sudden  hush  that  fell  on  the  congregation  when  the  young 
priest  raised  the  sacred  Particle  before  giving  it  to  his 
mother,  was  like  the  sudden  hush  that  fell  on  the  angry 
waves  when  Jesus  said  "Peace,"  or  the  silence  that  often 
fell  on  their  own  coast  and  betokened  a  storm.  The 
rest  of  the  communicants  received  in  the  same  orderly 
silence. 


ORDAINED  FOR  CONNEMARA  33 

The  Mass  was  nearing  its  end,  and  the  peop1e  were 
radiant  with  satisfaction.  A  miracle  had  been  performed 
in  their  midst.  Mrs.  Henry  had  regained  her  health. 
There  was  actually  a  "blush"  on  her  face  at  the  Com- 
munion, and  how  "sthrong  an'  hearty"  she  looked — just 
like  «th'  ould  days." 

"What  a  gran'  thing  it  would  be,"  whispered  one 
rugged  fisherman  to  his  neighbor,  "if  she  could  keep 
house  for  her  son !  We'd  build  her  a  nice  little  house — 
ay,  a  fine  cottage  at  th'  beach." 

At  the  last  Gospel  the  people  arose  again,  and  the  sick 
woman  was  helped  to  a  sitting  position. 

"Ite;  missa  est"  (Go;  the  Mass  is  finished),  said  the 
celebrant. 

The  people  in  the  rear  passed  out  into  the  bright  sun- 
shine, crying  "A  miracle!  A  miracle!"  and  made  haste 
to  spread  the  joyful  tidings,  while  those  in  immediate  at- 
tendance on  the  sick  woman  were  laying  down  the  relaxed 
form  reverently,  and  folding  the  wasted  hands  on  the 
quiet  breast. 

For  her  the  Mass  was  ended  indeed — and  the  world. 
She  had  gone  forth  as  she  said  she  would,  at  the  bidding 
of  her  beloved  son — gone  forth  into  the  valley  of  the 
dark  shadows,  alone;  no,  not  alone,  for  her  Savior  was 
with  her,  making  "the  dark  places  light,"  and  the  good 
she  had  done  had  gone  before  her. 

They  may  carry  her  home  by  the  old  familiar  path  by 
mountain  or  beach,  but  those  who  carry  her  will  not  be 
asked  to  lay  her  down  that  she  may  feast  her  eyes  on  the 
old  loved  scenes  hallowed,  not  by  her  own  youth,  but  by 
the  memory  of  her  son.  Her  tired  eyes  are  resting  on 
fairer  scenes  and  her  patience,  her  kindness,  her  charity 


34  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

and  the  long  list  of  homely  virtues,  practiced  every  day  by 
plain  people  who  dwell  in  the  Highlands  by  the  sea,  are 
speaking  for  her.  And  if  these  are  not  sufficient  to  offset 
the  sins  inseparable  from  humanity,  the  great  gift  she 
carries  in  her  hands — the  gift  of  her  son  made  ready  for 
His  service  by  her  self-abnegation  and  by  her  sacrifices 
— will  not  that  count,  O  Lord,  will  not  that  count  ? 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  35 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE 

Every  boat  was  tethered,  and  every  yawl  at  anchor. 
The  sea  was  as  smooth  as  a  mirror.  The  dillisk  and 
limpet  gatherers  had  forsaken  the  rocks  and  were  stand- 
ing in  groups  around  the  door  of  the  largest  house  on 
the  island,  famous,  first,  for  its  brave  fishers  and  pretty 
fishermaids,  and  second,  for  being  so  close  to  the  main- 
land that  it  was  occasionally  taken  for  a  peninsula. 

It  was  a  wedding,  and  everyone  was  anxious  to  catch 
a  first  glimpse  of  the  bride. 

Inside  the  house  warring  elements  were  busy.  The 
guests,  mostly  fishermen  from  different  parts  of  the 
coast,  were  quiet  and  expectant.  Something  had  gone 
wrong.  There  was  a  hitch  somewhere,  but  not  among 
them.  They  had  not  come  to  fight  but  to  enjoy  them- 
selves, and  if,  after  a  while,  the  liquor  took  effect,  they 
would  go  home — oh,  yes,  they  would  go  home  and  fight 
somewhere  else,  out  of  the  reach  of  Dareen's  arm,  and  of 
Father  Tom's  voice.  Dareen  was  Beezey's  eldest  brother, 
and  Father  Tom — well,  Father  Tom  was  Father  Tom. 

The  groom  was  angry.  He  was  talking  loudly  in  the 
"parlor"  and  the  door  was  closed,  save  to  a  favored  few. 
He  had  been  "sleeping  it  off,"  the  men  said,  laughingly, 
meaning  that  a  few  glasses  of  native  "whiska,"  taken 
prior  to  the  ceremony,  had  overcome  him  because  he  was 
not  used  to  it. 


FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Galilee,"  facetiously  named  by  a  witty  schoolmaster, 
was  the  best  place  on  earth  to  go  to  in  order  to  hear  the 
greatest  variety  of  accents  in  a  given  time.  Fishermen 
from  Donegal  to  the  coast  of  Scotland,  and  from  Conne- 
niara  to  the  coast  of  Clare  and  as  far  south  as  the  Loop 
Head,  not  to  speak  of  Frenchmen,  half  acclimated, 
carried  traces  of  their  origin  on  their  tongues,  and  were 
apt  to  cause  a  stranger  some  confusion,  till  he  became  ac- 
customed to  them. 

The  groom  was  from  far  Donegal,  and  talked  with 
the  accent  of  the  North,  closely  resembling  that  of  the 
Scotch.  He  was  tall,  handsome  and  powerfully  built, 
and  young,  but  his  features  were  working  convulsively, 
and  were  dark  with  passion. 

"Oh,  then,  'tis  always  the  quite  gossoon  ye  were, 
Malachy,"  said  a  native,  cautiously.  "What's  the  mat- 
ter wid  ye  at  all,  at  all  ?" 

"Th'  matther  wi'  me  is  that  I've  been  lied  to— that  I 
am  a  laughin'-stock  for  all  th'  lads  from  Galilee  to 
Gorumna  an'  Lettermullen,  an'  from  Lettermullen  to  far 
Aran  an'  every  island  on  th'  coast." 

"Whisth,  man,  whisth,  or  yer  wife'll  hear  ye." 

"Wife!"  repeated  the  young  man  scornfully,  "why, 
'tis  th'  wrong  woman,  I  tell  ye.  Tis  th'  wrong  woman. 
That  wasna  th'  woman  I  wanted  at  all.  'Tis  a  hard 
thing  to  thrate  a  mon  as  if  he  wor  a  dumb  baste — as  if 
he  had  no  choice.  I'll  hae  naethin'  to  do  wi'  her.  I'll 
hae  naethin'  to  do  wi'  her." 

"Then  why,  for  heaven's  sake,  did  ye  have  anythin' 
to  do  wid  her  ?  Why  did  ye  take  wid  her  ?" 

"Why  did  I  tak'  wi'  her,  is  it?  Why,  I  never  took 
wi'  her.  I  had  naethin'  to  do  wi'  th'  merrige.  I  never 
set  eyes  on  th'  woman  before." 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE     A" '.  37 

"Then  why  didn't  ye  spake  up  to  his  reverence?" 
cried  the  other,  impatiently.  "Father  Tom  has  raison; 
why  didn't  ye  spake  up  to  him  ?" 

"Why  didn't  I  spake  up  till  his  reverence,  why  didn't 
I  ?"  repeated  the  young  man  with  equal  impatience,  "why, 
because  I  never  saw  his  reverence.  I  couldn't  see  a  hole 
in  a  laddher,  let  alone  his  reverence.  An'  all  be  raison 
av  Dareen's  whiska.  I  see  it  all  now.  He  kept  th'  bottle 
undher  me  nose  till  I  dhrank  th'  hulth  av  all  th'  woman's 
relations — her  granfather  an'  granmother,  her  aunts  an' 
uncles  an'  cousins  to  th'  fourth  generation.  I'm  not 
much  av  a  han'  wi'  th'  whiska,  as  ye  all  ken,  an'  before  I 
was  half  way  through  ma  heed  was  reelin'  lak'  a  top,  an' 
I  didna  ken  whether  I  was  at  a  funeral  or  a  weddin', 
much  less  ma  own.  That  was  airly  th'  morn,  an'  now 
'tis  past  noon.  I  must  hae  slept " 

"Ye  did  that — right  on  that  form  there.  Yer  bride 
kem  out  to  have  a  peep  at  ye,  an'  well  plazed  she  seemed 
to  be,  well  plazed  an'  wid  good  raison,  for  there's  no 
denyin'  yer  a  fine  lookin'  gossoon,  an'  a  great  han'  at 
th'  fishin'— th'  best  av  them  all." 

The  young  man  shook  his  head  despairingly  and  sat 
down  with  a  groan. 

"There  was  a  brother  aich  side  av  ye,  I  remember," 
his  consoler  continued,  "an'  they  nudged  ye  to  answer  th' 
priest,  but  sure  it's  customary  to  dhrink  healths  at  a 
weddin',  an'  it's  too  late  now  to  find  faut.  Th'  best 
thing  ye  can  do  is  to  say  nothin',  but  take  up  wid  yer 
woman,  an'  ye  may  find  her  th'  best  in  th'  worl'  yet. 
That's  thrue,  man,  that's  thrue." 

"Na,"  said  the  young  man,  sullenly,  "I'll  na  tak'  up  wi' 
her.  I'll  lave  this  island  an' " 


38  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Whisth,  man,  whisth.  That's  no  talk  fer  ye.  Dareen 
is  a  hard  man " 

"I  dinna  care  fer  Dareen.    Th'  worl'  is  wide." 

"Not  fer  ye,  me  boy.  Ye'll  have  to  abide  be  th' 
merrige  whatsomever.  Take  another  dhrop  to  settle 
yer  thoughts.  Have  sense,  man,  have  sense.  When  ye 
are  as  ould  as  I  am,  one  woman'll  be  th'  same  to  ye  as  an- 
other. Wasn't  she  th'  girl  ye  coorted  ?" 

"Na,  na,  that  she  wasna.  I  toll't  ye  I  never  saw  her 
before.  I'll  tak'  ma  boat  an' " 

"What's  this  I  hear?"  said  a  voice  at  his  elbow.  "Yer 
goin',  are  ye — goin'  to  desart  yer  wife  that  ye  marrit  this 
day?  Yer  goin'  to  desart  me  sisther " 

"Ay,  an'  that's  what  I'm  goin'  to  do." 

The  men  glared  savagely.  They  were  soon  joined  by 
other  members  of  the  family,  and  the  effect  of  the  many 
toasts  they  had  drunk  was  very  visible  in  their  deport- 
ment. The  young  man  stood  his  ground  unflinchingly 
and  dared  the  crowd. 

"Ye  hae  deceived  me,  ye  people  of  Galilee,"  he  said. 
"I  was  a  stranger  amang  ye,  workin'  wi'  ye  side  by  side, 
faithful  an'  honest.  Ye  hae  deceived  me." 

"Ye  axed  me  fer  me  sisther,  an'  I  gave  her  to  ye." 

"This  had  betther  be  settled  be  good  authority,"  said 
the  first  man,  nervously.  "There  comes  Pether  Caine. 
He's  th'  arbither.  Let  him  an'  Father  Tom  come  to 
terms  between  themselves." 

"There's  ony  ane  settlement  fer  me,"  said  the  young 
man,  firmly,  "Father  Tom  must  undo  that  merrige.  It's 
a  meestake,  so  it  is,  or  he'll  get  na  merrige  dues." 

A  loud  laugh  was  his  answer.  That  Father  Tom 
should  annul  a  marriage  was  a  huge  joke,  indeed,  and 
showed  that  the  young  fellow  was  a  stranger  in  Galilee. 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  39 

"A  stranger  I  cam'  amang  ye,  I  shared  th'  same 
dangers  an'  th'  same  joys.  Ye  hae  used  me  ill.  I  hae 
become  a  laughin'-stock,  a  byword,  an'  a  fool,"  and 
the  young  man  stamped  his  foot. 

"Hi,"  said  a  big  fisherman  in  a  tar-lined  hat  and  long 
boots,  "what's  th'  throuble  about?  Ye  got  a  woman, 
didn't  ye,  an'  th'  women  of  Connemara  are  th'  best  in  th' 
worl'.  Ye  won't  find  Amby's  akal  from  Lough  Corrib  to 
Clew  Bay,  an'  that's  sayin'  a  dale." 

"I'm  sayin'  naethin'  agin  th'  girl,"  put  in  the  young 
groom,  quickly. 

"Ye'd  betther  not,"  interrupted  a  middle-aged  son  of 
the  sea. 

"She  may  be  all  or  more  than  ye  say,  but  she's  na  for 
me;  Amby  is  no  th'  girl  I  asked  tae  marry  me.  When  I 
canna  get  ma  own  love,  I'll  tak'  ma  boat  an'  gae,"  said 
the  bridegroom. 

Malachy  Daniels  was  a  lover  of  the  water,  and  his  boat 
was  large  and  strong. 

"Would  ye  put  th'  slight  on  us?"  asked  the  bride's 
brother,  but  with  an  eye  to  business. 

"What  hae  ye  put  on  me?"  answered  the  man,  fiercely. 

"Here  comes  Father  Tom  and  Peter  Caine;  talk  it  out 
wi'  them  an'  settle  things  between  yirsels,"  and  the  wed- 
ding guests,  nothing  loth,  left  the  groom  and  his  brother- 
in-law  to  the  clergyman  and  the  local  arbiter. 

"What's  this  I  hear,  what's  this  I  hear?"  said  Father 
Tom,  briskly  opening  the  discussion  and  seating  himself 
noisily. 

"Th'  groom  won't  speak  to  his  bride,  an'  puts  her  to 
shame  before  th'  whole  Island." 

The  young  man  addressed  stood  sulky  and  apart,  his 


40  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

eyes  on  the  turf  fire  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  His 
vigorous  and  handsome  frame  was  stretched  to  its  ut- 
most and  his  hands  were  folded  on  his  breast.  He  turned 
to  the  clergyman  defiantly. 

"That's  na  ma  wife;  th'  girl  I  wanted  was-— Beezey. 
Th'  woman  they  say  I  marrit  is  a  black  stranger  to  me. 
I  hae  never  seen  Amby  before." 

"Thrue  fer  you.  Amby  had  been  workin'  fer  Squire 
O'Donnell  in  Kilrush,  but  she's  a  good  girl,  a  good  girl." 

"I  wanted  Beezey,"  said  the  young  man,  impatiently. 

"Tut,  tut,  Beezey  is  only  a  child,"  said  the  priest. 

"She's  nineteen,  an'  I'm  na  so  verra  old,  mysel'; 
twenty-two  last  Candlemas." 

"How  did  the  misunderstanding  come?"  asked  the 
priest.  "I  married  you,  and  you  made  no  objection." 

The  young  man  smiled  bitterly.  "I  wasna  able,"  he 
said.  "I  was  stupid  from  th'  poteen  they  med  me  swal- 
low." 

"How  is  this?"  asked  Father  Tom  of  the  Buckley  boys, 
five  in  number,  who  stood  near  the  young  man  with  the 
lowering  brows. 

"The  eldest  of  the  family  marries  first;  that's  the  rule 
in  Galilee,"  spoke  up  the  eldest  boy. 

"Thrue,  thrue,"  said  the  arbiter,  gravely,  "th'  eldest 
goes  first." 

"Malachy  axed  us  fer  our  sisther;  we  gave  him  Amby 
accordin'  to  our  usage  an'  law  on  th'  Island,"  said 
Dareen. 

"An'  I  knew  naethin'  of  yer  eldest  sisther,"  said  the 
unfortunate  young  man,  strangling  a  cry,  "I  meant  Bee- 
zey." 

"That  was  no  matther  to  us,"  said  the  brother,  eva- 
sively, "th'  eldest  goes  first." 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  41 

"Th'  eldest  goes  first,"  repeated  Peter  Caine. 

"If  that  young  man,  who  is  a  stranger  amongst  you, 
knew  not  the  law,  then  he  has  not  been  fairly  used," 
said  the  clergyman,  "and  it's  a  bad  business." 

"'Tis  no  bad  business,  your  reverence,"  interrupted 
the  oldest  brother,  who  was  pleased  to  see  his  eldest 
sister  married,  "an'  th'  less  he  says  about  it,  th'  betther. 
My  sisther  is  no  shushrawn"  (wanderer)  "to  have  her 
name  dragged  through  everybody's  mouth  on  her  wed- 
din'  day.  He  axed  me  fer  my  sisther.  I  gave  him  th' 
one  fittest  fer  merrige,  accordin'  to  our  customs." 

"I  knew  not  th'  customs  of  Galilee.  I  cam'  from  far 
Donegal,"  pleaded  the  groom. 

A  strain  of  music  crept  in  through  a  rift  in  the  door, 
together  with  the  tapping  and  the  shuffling  of  many  feet, 
which  reminded  the  council  that  the  wedding  fun  was  at 
its  height,  and  the  supper  was  waiting  them. 

"If  I  had  known  it  in  time,  I  would  not  have  per- 
formed the  ceremony,"  said  the  priest,  gravely,  "till  the 
matter  had  been  reasoned  out  with  the  young  couple.  We 
might  have  found  Amby  a  husband  and  let  this  young 
man  marry  Beezey,  seeing  he's  so  attached  to  her." 

"With  all  due  respect  to  your  reverence,"  said  one 
of  her  brothers,  hotly,  "'tis  her  brothers  who  should  do 
that  fer  her,  her  father  an'  mother  bein'  dead.  My 
sisther  is  no  shushrawn." 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  priest,  mildly,  "there's  no  harm 
meant.  It  wouldn't  be  the  first  match  I've  made,  and 
the  best  of  matches,  too.  But  something  has  to  be  done, 
to  come  to  a  peaceful  understanding." 

"I'll  gae  awa',"  said  the  young  man,  gloomily.  "Ma 
boat  an'  share  in  th'  nets  I'll  leave  tae  Amby.  I  canna 
stay  here." 


42  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Ye  might  stay  in  six  feet  of  earth,  if  it  were  parceled 
out  to  ye,"  said  Dareen,  "before  ye  put  a  slight  on  my 
sisther." 

"Dareen!"  cried  Father  Tom,  "would  you  spake  of 
murdher  ?" 

"It's  got  to  be  settled,"  said  Dareen.  "Let  him  come 
outside  an'  th'  best  man  wins." 

"It's  a  bad  work  on  a  wedding  day,"  said  Father  Tom. 
"You  must  admit  the  young  man  has  cause  for  complaint, 
for  he  did  not  know  your  customs,  but  what  God  has 
joined  together " 

"He  should  have  taken  th'  throuble  to  find  out  our 
customs,  if  he  wanted  to  belong  to  th'  Buckleys,  an'  she's 
marrit  wid  me  mother's  ring,  that's  three  hundred  years 
in  th'  family." 

"I'll  gae,"  said  the  groom,  "an'  I  dar  ye  to"  prevent 
me." 

The  arbiter,  who  had  sat  almost  unmoved  during  the 
whole  argument,  now  raised  his  hand. 

"Dareen  speaks  of  old  customs;  there  is  yet  an  older 
custom  that  he  seems  to  pass  over,  an'  that  is  th'  universal 
custom  of  bein'  guided  by  th'  chief  selected  by  th'  people 
of  this  Island.  I  am  th'  one  chosen.  With  all  due  re- 
spect for  th'  Church,  Father  Tom,  ye  will  remember 
that  in  this  case  my  decision  comes  first." 

"Yes,  yes,"  acquiesced  the  priest,  quickly,  "no  one 
disputes  your  authority.  I  know  you  will  decide  wisely 
and  well  and  for  the  peace  and  good  order  of  Galilee." 

The  man,  on  whom  his  best  clothes,  worn  in  honor  of 
the  day,  sat  awkwardly,  looked  a  very  Solomon  as  he 
stretched  his  long  limbs  and  put  his  hands  into  his 
pockets.  He  resumed  his  oil-skin  cap,  perhaps  as  a 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  43 

mark  of  distinction,  and  went  to  the  matter  in  hand 
with  great  precision.  He  sifted  it  to  its  foundation,  and 
while  standing  stoutly  for  old  customs,  stood  just  as 
stoutly  for  justice. 

"Th'  young  fellow  didn't  know  th'  ould  customs," 
said  he,  summing  up  the  case,  "an'  whose  fault  that  was, 
it  would  do  us  no  good  to  know.  He  marrit  th'  girl  wid 
her  dead  mother's  ring,  an'  that's  bindin',  an'  can't  well 
be  got  out  of,  even  if  th'  girl  were  willin',  but  th'  boy 
must  go " 

"An'  desart  my  sisther?"  shouted  Dareen. 

"I  didna  know  th'  law,"  pleaded  the  groom. 

"I  say  th'  groom  goes,"  calmly  proceeded  the  man, 
"but  he  will  return  again  an'  make  th'  acquaintance  of 
his  wife.  When  he's  away  from  everybody  an'  has  time 
to  think,  he  will  see  that  we  are  in  this  worl',  not  to  get 
everything  we  want,  but  anything  fate  is  willin'  to  give 
us.  Th'  most  manly  is  he  who  makes  th'  best  of  every- 
thing an'  does  his  duty  widout  repinin'.  Let  th'  boy  go. 
He'll  come  back." 

"I  want  to  ask  one  question  here,"  said  the  priest. 
"Did  ye  get  a  promise  from  Beezey?" 

"A  promise  from  Beezey?"  said  one  of  the  brothers, 
impatiently.  "Your  reverence  forgets  that  Beezey  is 
only  a  child." 

"I  asked  nane  from  her,"  said  the  groom,  in  a  broken 
voice,  "but  we  understand  ane  another.  It  isna  always 
in  words  that  a  promise  may  be  given.  I  toll't  her  I  was 
spakin'  to  her  brother  about  her,  an'  her  eyes  spake  of 
th'  gladness.  We  hadna  much  time  for  th'  talkin'  but  ma 
heart  went  out  to  her  th'  first  day.  I'm  from  far  Done- 
gal, yer  reverence,  an'  know  not  th'  customs  of " 


44  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

He  hung  his  head  dejectedly,  his  usually  bright  face 
pale  and  disturbed.  There  was  intense  silence  for  a 
moment,  while  the  unhappy  groom's  thoughts  seemed 
far  away. 

"An'  th'  dhrink  ye  took " 

"Anyone  that  can't  take  a  few  mouthfuls  of  whiska  to 
his  own  success  on  his  weddin'  day  isn't  worth  th'  name 
of  man!"  shouted  Dareen.  "It's  an  old  custom,  so  it  is, 
an'  a  good  custom." 

"I  never  was  used  to  th'  whiska,"  returned  the  groom, 
apologetically,  "but  I  was  used  to  th'  work  an'  th' 
feeshin'." 

"Ay,  I  defy  one  to  stan'  up  before  th'  lad  in  a  good 
day's  work,"  interposed  the  arbiter.  "My  decision  is,  th' 
lad  goes,  an'  when  he's  tired  o'  strangers  he  can  return 
to  his  own.  His  wife  will  be  here  waitin'  fer  him " 

"If  ye  say  so,  I  suppose  it  must  be,"  said  the  brother. 
"But  how  do  we  know  he'll  come  back?  He  must  take 
his  oath " 

"I'll  tak'  na  oath,"  said  the  young  man,  "I'll  mak'  na 
promises." 

"Not  necessary,"  said  the  chief.  "He'll  do  what's 
best,  rely  on  that.  He'll  come  back.  An'  now  th'  next 
thing  is  to  break  th'  news  to  th'  bride.  It  often  hap- 
pens that  a  man  has  to  leave  his  wife  at  th'  althar  to  serve 
his  counthry,  an'  it  was  just  a  year  to-day  that  Larry  Mc- 
Kenna  left  afther  th'  merrige  fer  th'  fishin';  th'  herrin' 
was  in  an'  there  was  no  time  to  wait " 

"An'  th'  storm  set  in,"  interrupted  the  brother,  "an' 
he  was  brought  home  to  his  bride  a  corp.  It's  unlucky, 
I  say." 

The  dishes  were  rattled  vigorously,  as  if  to  give  the 
council  a  hint  of  waiting  appetites. 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  45 

"Well,  well,"  said  Father  Tom,  rising,  "whatever  ye 
intend  doin'  must  be  done  quickly,  before  th'  merrymakin' 
goes  any  further,  to  save  throuble.  Part  in  friendship 
with  your  brother-in-law,  because  God  alone  knows  th' 
future." 

The  bride's  brother  gave  his  hand  sullenly  to  his  new 
relative,  the  others,  more  friendly,  wishing  the  wanderer 
good  luck  and  a  pleasant  voyage.  They  watched  him 
face  the  wind  and  the  drizzling  rain  and  disappear  behind 
the  "Rock-a-Gaul,"  a  little  promontory  against  which  the 
merciless  waves  were  then  fiercely  beating. 

The  arbiter  had  done  his  work  swiftly  and  well,  and 
he  heaved  a  satisfied  sigh  at  the  prospect  of  peace.  It 
was  another  thing  to  face  the  woman.  He  had  sent  for 
Amby,  but  his  courage  fell. 

"Father  Tom,"  he  called  out,  as  the  priest  was  pre- 
paring to  leave,  "I — I — I'd  rather  ye'd  face  th'  woman." 

"I  don't  know,"  was  the  reply,  "you  managed  th'  man 
all  right " 

"Yes — yes,  a  few  words  in  raison,  an  oath  or  two, 
maybe  a  blow  or  two,  goes  a  long  way  wid  a  man  from 
one  of  themselves — from  one  who  has  faced  danger  an' 
death  wid  him,  an'  who  has  nothin'  to  gain  by  desait; 
but  a  woman — th'  Lord  pardon  me — I'd  as  soon  an' 
sooner  face  th'  devil.  There's  no  raisonin'  wid  a  woman. 
When  she  makes  up  her  mind  to  a  thing,  ye  can't  make 
her  change,  not  till  it  shoots  her  agin,  an'  then  she'll 
raison  as  sthrong  th'  other  way." 

Father  Tom  was  as  little  anxious  as  the  arbiter  to 
face  a  bride  deprived  of  a  handsome  young  husband. 

"Ye'll  take  th'  blame  of  sendin'  him  away,"  said  the 
clergyman,  with  a  smile. 


46  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Ay,  an'  waur  than  all,  it's  likely  th'  girl's  last  chance. 
Amby's  a  good  girl,  a  good  girl,  but  she's  well  on  in 
years,  an'  has  but  th'  one  eye — "  he  whispered.  Only 
one  thing  on  earth  could  make  him  lower  his  voice  in 
fear,  and  that  was  an  angry  woman. 

There  was  no  need  for  further  talk.  The  bride  was 
before  them  in  all  her  bridal  bravery.  Everything  was 
of  the  best,  for  Amby  had  been  like  the  bee,  always 
gathering  and  preparing  for  the  important  event  in  her 
life.  In  fact  she  had  been  ready  for  ten  years.  At  any 
time  during  that  period,  had  her  brothers  called  on  her 
to  marry,  her  answer  would  have  been  a  prompt  "ready." 
She  had  put  the  last  stitch  in  a  quilt  of  4,000  patches,  the 
working  of  which  it  was  said  had  cost  her  her  eye.  The 
last  feather  was  in  her  bed,  the  last  hem  in  her  towels 
and  sheets,  and  the  last  polish  on  her  little  white  caps. 
The  best  of  it  all  was  that  these  valued  treasures  had 
been  purchased  with  her  own  earnings. 

Amby  was  always  so  happily  employed  that  she  had 
no  time  for  the  follies  of  youth,  no  time  even  for  old- 
fashioned  courting — respectful  courting,  in  the  presence 
of  her  elders — even  if  her  brothers  had  allowed  her  so 
much  innocent  pastime.  They  gave  her  to  understand 
that  they  would  attend  to  everything  in  the  selection  of 
a  life  partner,  and  they  did.  At  first  they  were  very 
particular  and  dismissed  many  suitors  gathered  by  the 
fame  of  Amby's  industry ;  but  times  had  changed,  and  the 
young  fisherman  was  the  first  bait  worthy  of  their  notice 
and  they  snapped  him  up. 

The  priest  was  reaching  for  the  door  when  Amby's 
voice  stopped  him.  "Your  reverence,"  she  said,  cour- 
tesy ing,  "has  something  to  say  to  me,  an'  Peter  Caine, 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  47 

ye  never  came  forrard  to  th'  wrastlin' ;  an'  more  be  token 
th'  supper  is  waitin' " 

Bridal  honors  were  sitting  well  on  Amby;  she  was  a 
comely  woman,  notwithstanding  the  loss  of  her  eye,  and 
what  between  the  gay  dress  and  the  congratulations  and 
the  blushes,  she  was  almost  handsome. 

"We  have  something  to  say  to  ye,  Amby,  which  I  hope 
ye'll  take  in  good  part,  like  th'  sensible  girl  ye  are " 

"Certainly,  yer  reverence,  certainly;  but  first,  ye  must 
wet  yer  lips.  Talkin'  is  dhry  work.  Bring  in  th'  whiska, 
Maureen " 

"No,  no,"  said  Father  Tom,  hurriedly,  "we  must  say 
what  we  have  to  say  first.  It's  about  your  husband, 
he's " 

"Yes,  shure  I  know  it  is."  Both  men  heaved  a  sigh 
of  relief,  which  changed  as  she  proceeded.  "He's  gone 
a  little  in  th'  liquor,  but  ye  can't  expect  a  man  to  be 
sensible  on  his  weddin'  day.  He's  a  fine  young  man, 
betther  than  I  expected,  an'  it's  thankful  I  am  to  me 
brothers  fer  what  they've  done  fer  me." 

"He's  gone " 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  the  bride,  "but  he'll  come  round  before 
mornin'.  Tis  he  has  th'  character  fer  sobriety.  Shure 
we  must  fergive  him " 

"No,  no,"  said  Caine.  "My  good  woman,  I'm  sorry 
fer  ye,  but  he's  gone,  gone  away ;  says  he  thought  he — 
he  was  to  marry  yer  sisther,  Beezey." 

The  bride  paled  a  little  and  then  laughed. 

"Beezey?"  she  repeated.  "Beezey's  only  a  child,  eyah ; 
what  nonsense!  she  hasn't  th'  wrappin'  of  her  finger  of 
anything  to  start  house  wid." 

"But  he's  really  gone " 

4 


48  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Well,  let  him  go,  an'  he'll  come  back.  There's  many 
a  one  goes  an'  comes  back  when  they're  tired  of  wan- 
derin'.  He  marrit  me  anyway  wid  me  mother's  ring,  an' 
he  has  to  stan'  by  me,  or  he'll  never  fish  a  day  in  these 
wathers." 

"I'm  glad,  Amby,  very  glad,  that  ye  take  it  so  well. 
Cheer  up  an'  say  nothin'  to  th'  rest  of  th'  guests,  an'  he 
may  be  back  afore  th'  morrow,"  said  the  arbiter,  en- 
couragingly. 

"I  won't  say  a  word  to  anybody,  bekase  I  know  that 
he'll  come  back.  A  girl  wid  a  forty-pound  feather-bed, 
an'  a  'rocky  roads'  quilt,  besides  two  others,  wid  sheets 
an'  ten  pounds  in  th'  bank  is  not  to  be  sneezed  at." 

Amby  tossed  her  head  complacently ;  she  evidently  esti- 
mated herself  at  a  fair  valuation,  and  was  not  to  be 
alarmed  by  anything  they  could  say.  So  much  the  bet- 
ter. There  were  to  be  no  broken  hearts,  no  tears,  no 
trouble.  No  doubt  Amby,  with  her  woman's  intuition, 
was  right.  He  would  come  back. 

Father  Tom  breathed  freer,  and  the  arbiter  reached  his 
hand  for  the  glass  offered  him.  It  was  his  first  drink, 
but  he,  like  the  priest,  though  urged  to  stay,  made  many 
excuses  for  leaving  early.  With  the  groom  a  wanderer, 
though  the  fact  was  known  only  to  a  few,  the  merriment 
sounded  hollow  and  sad. 

A  skirl  from  Larry  McGan's  pipes  burst  through  the 
opening  door  that  admitted  Sheila  Veg. 

"There's  th'  death  keen  runnin'  through  Larry's  pipes 
th'  night,"  murmured  the  old  woman,  looking  through 
her  thatch  of  gray  hair.  "Can't  ye  hear  it,  yer  rever- 
ence ?" 

"Nonsense !"  said  Father  Tom,  angrily. 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  49 

"Ay,  ye  may  say  nonsense,  but  ye're  none  so  deaf,  wid 
life  an'  death  continually  callin'  on  ye.  Th'  last  time 
I  heard  that  keen  was  when  Wapple  Donovan  was  brought 
in  a  corp.  He  went  to  help  haul  a  load  of  fish  that  th' 
gossoons  couldn't  manage  while  th'  weddin'  supper  was 
goin'  on,  an'  slipped  undher  Cormae  Coolin's  boat,  an' 
th'  fools  landed  him  in,  wrapped  in  a  sail,  to  his  bride, 
who  knew  nothin'  about  his  absence.  I  heard  th'  keen 
in  th'  music,  from  th'  minit  th'  piper  touched  th'  chanter, 
an'  I  knew  death  was  at  th'  weddin'." 

Father  Tom  was  now  on  his  sure-footed  pony,  and 
Peter  Caine  was  keeping  eager  pace  with  him  in  his  de- 
parture from  the  house  of  mirth.  The  priest's  head  was 
on  his  breast  and  the  faithful  old  pony  trotted  carefully 
along  as  if  she  shared  in  the  thoughts  of  her  master. 
Their  progress  was  slow,  the  moon  was  silvering  the  sea 
and  the  mountains  and  the  nooks  where  the  boats  were 
sheltered. 

When  the  priest  sought  his  boat  a  figure  standing  high 
in  the  shadow  of  a  rock  drew  his  attention.  It  was  so 
still  as  to  appear  carved  in  the  stone.  He  was  turning 
away,  when  a  thought  struck  him. 

"Beezey!"  cried  the  priest,  suddenly.  "Beezey,  child, 
is  that  you?"  It  was  Beezey,  but  she  did  not  respond 
very  readily.  "She  was  always  a  very  silent  girl,"  said 
the  priest  to  himself.  "Dark  an'  distant."  But  he  was 
uneasy.  It  was  a  strange  place  for  a  young  girl  to  linger 
on  the  day  of  her  sister's  wedding. 

"What  are  ye  doin'  here,  Beezey,  at  this  time  of  th' 
cvenin'  ?" 

The  figure  on  the  rock  started  at  the  sound  of  his 
voice,  and  turned  a  face  toward  him  that  was  strangely 


50  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

unljke  the  young  sister  of  the  bride  he  had  just  left.  It 
was  Beezey,  a  Beezey  changed  from  the  simple,  innocent 
fishermaid  and  careful  little  housekeeper,  to  a  woman 
stern  and  cold. 

"Looking  for  my  boat,  Father."  She  turned  away  her 
eyes  as  she  spoke  as  if  afraid  of  scrutiny,  and  shading 
them  with  her  hands,  looked  over  the  vast  expanse  of 
waters.  The  priest  sat  uneasily  on  his  pony.  He  was 
little  used  to  the  ways  of  woman  and  was  puzzled  what 
to  do. 

There  was  something  strange  about  Beezey's  actions, 
yet  how  could  he  be  sure  of  anything  in  the  matter? 
Like  a  flash  came  to  his  mind  the  recollection  of  his  niece 
Eleanor,  who  also  loved  the  sea  and  knew  more  about 
girls  in  one  minute  than  he  could  learn  all  his  life. 

"Come  with  me,  Beezey.  Eleanor  will  be  glad  to  see 
ye,"  said  Father  Tom.  "She  has  been  wantin'  to  talk 
to  ye  for  a  long  time  past."  This  was  a  little  romance  on 
the  part  of  the  priest,  but  something  had  to  be  done. 

"Thank  Miss  Eleanor  for  me,  Father  Tom,  but  I  can't 
go  now.  I  must  find  my  boat." 

The  priest  waited;  his  conscience  was  troubling  him. 
Perhaps  he  should  have  made  a  stand  against  this  whole- 
sale drinking  at  weddings.  Perhaps  he  should  have  in- 
quired more  closely  into  the  conditions  of  things  before 
he  married  the  last  couple.  He  looked  at  the  girl.  The 
sweet  Irish  twilight  was  softening  the  harsh  lines  of 
rock  and  mountain  and  casting  a  light  shadow  on  the 
waves  at  his  feet.  Through  it  the  girl  appeared  like  the 
water-nymph  who,  according  to  the  fairy  tales  of  this 
region,  leaves  her  ocean-bed  and  seeks  for  a  time  the 
lights  of  the  upper  world. 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  51 

A  favorite  story  was  that  a  water-sprite  often  lost 
her  cap  and  had  to  remain  on  the  rocks  until  it  came 
floating  over  the  water  to  her.  Perhaps  Beezey,  poor 
child,  had  lost  more  than  her  cap. 

"Beezey,"  began  the  priest.  He  stopped — probably 
there  was  no  truth  in  the  story,  and  he  might  be  only 
putting  foolish  thoughts  into  the  girl's  head.  Perhaps 
the  young  man  was  right,  and  it  was  his  duty  to  find  out 
how  far  the  girl  had  been  wronged. 

"Beezey,"  he  repeated,  "did  ye  ever  give  your  promise 
to  any  young  man?" 

The  girl  never  turned  her  head,  and  her  voice  sounded 
harsh  and  far  away. 

"It  is  the  rule  in  Galilee,"  she  said,  "for  a  decent  girl 
to  leave  such  matters  to  her  father  and  brothers.  As  a 
motherless  girl  I  have  always  kept  by  myself  and  obeyed 
my  brothers  in  everything.  Who  will  dare  say,"  she 
added,  passionately,  "that  the  girl  who  had  no  mother 
to  advise  her  had  to  be  checked  for  boldness  or  forward- 
ness among  the  men  ?  Can  you  say  it,  Father  Tom  ?" 

Father  Tom  was  astounded.  Was  this  Beezey — 
Beezey  the  innocent — Beezey  the  gentle,  the  little  girl 
whose  training  was  left  to  nature,  with  a  few  days  of 
schooling,  and  a  little — very  little — religious  instruction 
from  himself  ?  Only  the  voice  convinced  him. 

"No,  no,"  he  repeated,  hurriedly.  "You  were  a  good 
girl,  Beezey,  always  a  good  girl,  an'  go  home  now,  an' 
God  bless  ye,  an'  be  still  obedient  to  your  brothers." 

The  pony  trotted  away,  carrying  the  clergyman  over 
strips  of  gorse  and  heather,  over  acres  of  sweet-smelling 
arbutus  and  around  by  small  potato-patches  set  in  be- 
tween ledges  of  rock  made  fertile  by  the  ever  useful  kelp 


52  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

wrested  from  the  grudging  sea;  past  cabin  and  farm- 
house where  the  fires  were  burning  brightly  and  the 
potatoes  were  cooking  for  supper,  the  oat-cakes  were 
baking  a  delicious  brown,  and  the  doors  were  fast  shut- 
ting out  the  threatening  storm.  It  was  coming  and  the 
pony  knew  it.  She  lowered  her  head  and  moaned  like 
a  child. 

"Get  up,  Peggy,"  said  the  priest.  "Get  up,  Peggy, 
girl,  or  we  never  cross  th'  Bay  to-night.  Th'  boat  will 
be  dashed  to  pieces  on  th'  rocks,  if  Ned  hasn't  fastened 
it  securely." 

There  was  no  time  for  further  talk.  In  a  moment  the 
storm-cloud  burst,  the  rain  fell  in  torrents,  the  sea  rose 
mountain  high  and  dashed  like  a  thing  of  fury  against 
the  shore.  The  sea-birds  flew  screaming  from  point  to 
point  and  the  mountain  saplings  bent  to  the  ground. 
From  his  vantage-point  on  the  mountainside  Father  Tom 
could  see  the  various  members  of  his  little  flock  prepar- 
ing to  meet  the  storm.  From  peak  to  peak  came  glimpses 
of  warm  firesides  as  doors  were  opened  to  call  in  the 
missing  cattle.  Busy  housewives,  with  covered  heads, 
were  calling  to  their  absent  children  and  pet  lambs. 
Everything  that  was  accustomed  to  shelter  was  seeking 
it  at  once. 

"An'  Beezey,"  said  the  priest.  "Poor  girl,  she'll  be 
drowned!"  As  he  spoke,  the  door  of  a  cabin  opened 
and  the  sight  of  a  table  smoking  with  a  homely  repast 
of  potatoes  and  fish  appealed  strongly  to  the  priest's  sense 
of  hunger.  "Get  up,  Peggy,"  he  said  again,  "or  we  get 
no  supper  to-night." 

At  this  moment  the  bridle  was  seized  by  a  firm  hand 
and  a  woman's  voice  said,  "Ye  can't  go  any  further  to- 
night, Father  Tom.  Come  in  an'  rest  yerself." 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  53 

His  wet  coat  was  taken  from  him  by  willing  hands, 
the  pony  was  rubbed  down  and  fed,  and  the  door  again 
shut  in  the  teeth  of  the  blinding  storm. 

"There's  a  little  girl  out  on  th'  rock,"  said  Father 
Tom,  "an'  I  fear  she'll  be  lost.  Beezey  Buckloy,  ye 
know " 

"What  takes  her  on  th'  rock,  yer  reverence?  Wasn't 
her  sisther  marrit  to-day  ?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  priest,  hesitatingly,  "but  Beezey 
has  lost  her  boat." 

"  'Tis  a  quare  night  to  be  lookin'  fer  a  boat,  yer  rever- 
ence; but  depend  on  it,  Beezey  is  in  no  danger.  Why, 
that  girl  can  breast  th'  wather  like  a  duck." 

Father  Tom  was  still  uneasy,  and  while  being  re- 
spectfully waited  upon  with  the  best  of  the  homely  sup- 
per, his  thoughts  were  on  the  rock  by  the  sea  with  the 
young  girl  who  at  the  beginning  of  her  life  was  experi- 
encing the  most  cruel  sorrow. 

In  the  meantime  a  younger  and  more  fearless  man  was 
making  his  way  down  the  incline  toward  the  rock  where 
the  young  girl  who  was  giving  so  much  trouble  to  Father 
Tom  was  standing.  The  young  man  had  no  pony,  but 
he  sang  as  he  walked  and  seemed  to  take  no  heed  of  the 
storm;  he  laughed  as  the  rain  fell  on  his  face,  and  his 
song  was  ever  the  same  and  savored  of  church  and  in- 
cense. He  stopped  and  looked  sharply  toward  the  sea. 

"There's  somebody  on  the  rock,"  he  said.  "It's  a 
woman  and  the  tide  is  coming  in."  He  advanced  and 
called  in  a  loud  voice,  but  his  words  were  drowned  in 
the  storm.  The  light  was  getting  dimmer  but  the  out- 
lines of  the  woman's  form  were  familiar.  A  flash  of 
lightning  threw  the  figure  into  strong  relief.  It  was  that 


54  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

of  a  young  girl,  dressed  in  the  usual  red  home-spun 
petticoat  and  blue  bodice,  standing  up  against  the  strong 
wind.  The  hair  had  become  loosened  from  its  fastenings 
and  flowed  almost  to  her  feet,  giving  her  the  appear- 
ance of  a  water-sprite. 

"It's  Beezey,"  said  the  young  man.  "What  is  she 
doing  here?  I  fear  she  will  be  drowned.  Beezey!" 
he  cried,  "Beezey!"  But  the  wind  carried  the  sound 
away. 

Though  Amby  was  most  desirous  of  keeping  her  hus- 
band's desertion  a  secret,  the  story  had  leaked  out  through 
the  usual  channels,  the  beggars  and  huxters,  the  flotsam 
and  jetsam  that  always  follow  up  a  wedding  or  funeral 
at  the  coast,  or  indeed  anywhere  where  hospitality  is 
the  order  of  the  day.  Malachy  had  not  left  the  scene  of 
the  wedding  five  minutes  before  the  story  was  scattered 
to  the  winds  of  heaven.  Father  Henry  was  an  unwilling 
recipient  of  the  startling  news  while  he  was  engaged  in 
attending  a  sick-call  nearby.  He  thought  of  all  this  now 
as  he  watched  the  storm-tossed  figure  that  looked  in 
danger  of  being  swept  off  the  rock.  Even  while  he 
looked,  she  knelt  on  one  knee  and  clasping  her  hands 
around  the  other  as  if  to  brace  herself  against  the  warring 
elements,  looked  up  into  the  threatening  sky.  Through 
the  noise  of  the  storm  she  heard  his  voice  at  last,  for  she 
turned  in  his  direction.  The  young  man  beckoned  to  her 
and  looked  around  in  vain  for  a  boat,  for  the  tide  had 
filled  in  between  the  rock  and  the  shore,  and  had  made  it 
a  very  sea. 

"Can  she  swim  to  shore?"  he  thought,  and  then  the 
heads  of  the  jagged  rocks  protruding  through  the  water, 
which  the  wind  was  rapidly  churning  into  a  white  lather, 
forbade  the  thought.  "She  must  be  saved,  but  how?" 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  55 

In  a  moment  he  was  removing  his  coat  and  was  pre- 
paring to  breast  the  stormy  sea,  when  the  girl,  seeming 
to  divine  his  thoughts,  forestalled  him  by  sinking  gently 
into  the  water  and  disappearing.  The  man  was  horrified. 
Was  this  self-destruction  ?  Was  it  possible  that  a  simple 
girl  of  the  coast,  young  and  usually  happy,  should  be- 
come so  disappointed  with  life  as  to  wish  to  end  it  ere  it 
had  scarce  begun?  He  must  try  to  save  her.  Could  he, 
with  the  holy  anointing  fresh  on  his  brow — ordained  by 
his  mother's  wish  for  Connemara — stand  idly  by  and  see 
one  of  its  children  perish,  body  and  soul? 

Father  Henry  was  a  young  enthusiast,  conscientious 
and  wholly  in  earnest.  He  was  willing,  nay,  anxious,  to 
sacrifice  himself  for  the  benefit  of  the  people,  though  not 
even  a  man  could  swim  over  those  rocks  unless  he  were 
fully  acquainted  with  every  one  of  them.  And  even  then 
the  wind  was  so  strong  that  he  was  liable  to  be  carried 
like  a  straw  and  dashed  against  them. 

At  this  moment  something  black  appeared  at  intervals 
in  the  water.  It  was  the  top  of  Beezey's  head,  and  in  a 
little  while  she  could  be  seen  swimming  in  and  out,  up 
and  down,  with  the  motions  and  the  graceful  glide  of  the 
native  salmon;  sometimes  a  retrograde  movement  would 
bring  her  back  almost  to  where  she  started  from,  but  that 
was  natural  enough. 

Beezey  knew  the  rocks  and  was  simply  rounding  them. 
He  recognized  this  at  last  and  waited  in  admiration  of 
the  girl's  skill  and  daring. 

Beezey  mending  nets  and  building  the  big  turf-fire  in 
the  center  of  the  kitchen  in  Galilee,  and  Beezey  the  mer- 
maid rounding  the  rocks  on  Mohr  Head  were  two  dif- 
ferent persons,  the  priest  thought.  He  had  never  before 


56  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

realized  how  beautiful  she  was.  Father  Henry  was  an 
artist,  and  enjoyed  the  sight  of  a  beautiful  human  being 
as  he  would  a  beautiful  sunset  or  a  rare  landscape. 

Beezey  was  not  courting  death,  she  was  fighting  for 
her  life  now,  and  she  was  on  the  winning  side.  In  a  few 
moments  she  stood  dripping  and  exhausted,  but  trium- 
phant, before  him. 

"Beezey,"  said  Father  Henry,  "my  poor  child,  that  was 
a  foolhardy  thing  to  do.  You  might  have  lost  your  life." 
Beezey  shook  her  head,  as  if  she  didn't  care.  "Go  home 
as  quick  as  you  can  and  dry  your  clothes;  you  will  get 
your  death  of  cold."  Beezey  smiled.  It  was  a  sad  smile, 
but  she  said  nothing. 

The  wind  was  so  high  that  the  young  priest  had  to 
shout  in  order  to  be  heard.  The  girl  was  safe,  but  could 
he,  knowing  a  little  of  her  sad  story,  leave  her  like  this  ? 

"Beezey,"  he  repeated,  "go  home  like  a  good  girl  and 
dry  yowr  clothes." 

"I'm  used  to  being  wet,  Father,"  she  said.  "It  doesn't 
hurt  me  a  bit,  and  I'll  never  go  home." 

"And  where  will  you  go,  child  ?"  asked  the  priest. 

"Anywhere,"  said  Beezey.  "I  don't  care  much.  I 
shall  walk  on  till  I  get  a  boat  to  take  me  to  Galway,  and 
from  there  to  China  if  they  go  that  far." 

"Poor  child!"  said  the  priest.  "What  will  your  sisters 
and  brothers  think  about  this  ?  You  must  remember  their 
feelings." 

*And  why,  and  why,  Father?"  she  replied.  "They 
didn't  remember  mine ;  they  thought  I  was  a  stone,  or  a 
log,  or  the  keel  of  an  old  boat.  No,  no,  Father,  I'll  never 
go  home." 

"I  insist  upon  it,  Beezey.  You  are  too  young  to  wan- 
der away  among  strangers." 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  57 

"Strangers!"  she  repeated,  bitterly.  "Strangers  were 
better  to  me  than  my  own." 

There  was  a  lull  in  the  storm,  and  the  priest  and  the 
girl  conversed  easily,  but  it  was  only  a  calm  before  the 
greater  storm  that  was  preparing  to  burst  upon  the  coast. 

"Your  sister  was  married  this  morning,"  he  said,  "and 
she  has  known  the  young  man  but  a  single  day.  She 
is  not  to  blame,  for  nearest  male  relatives  had  made  the 
match,  which  is  the  custom  of  the  coast.  I  think  it  is 
a  poor  rule  that  cannot  be  broken  in  certain  cases,  and 
this  should  have  been  one  of  them.  Beezey,  you  have 
given -that  young  man  your  heart,  if  not  your  promise, 
and  you  shouldn't  have  allowed  the  marriage  to  proceed. 
Tell  me  all  about  it,  Beezey." 

Beezey  hung  her  head.  Her  cheeks  were  bright  crim- 
son, but  when  she  raised  her  eyes  to  the  priest's  face, 
they  were  bright  with  the  defiance  that  an  honest  young 
girl  throws  at  even  a  disinterested  meddler  in  the  affairs 
of  her  heart. 

"There's  little  to  tell,  Father,"  she  said,  at  last.  "A 
woman's  heart  can  be  given  without  a  word  from  her 
lips.  Malachy  loved  me,  and  I  waited.  I  made  no  prom- 
ise because  he  asked  for  none.  He  was  too  honorable  to 
speak  to  me  before  he  had  seen  my  brothers.  He  told 
me  he  asked  them,  and  they  gave  their  consent,  but  they 
said  nothing  to  me  and  brought  home  my  sister  at  the 
last  minute — " 

"An  unpardonable  piece  of  duplicity !"  muttered  the 
young  priest,  then  added  aloud,  "  Poor  little  girl !  How 
you  must  have  suffered!  But  you  must  take  it  all  for 
the  best.  Perhaps — " 

"No,  no!"  cried  the  girl  who,  now  the  ice  was  broken, 


58  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

poured  forth  her  grief  in  an  uncontrollable  torrent  that 
defied  all  barriers.  Oh,  it  was  a  comfort  to  talk  to  Father 
Henry,  who  understood  everything !  He  was  young  and 
felt  for  the  young.  He  had  not  forgotten,  like  Father 
Tom,  that  life  holds  something  besides  work  and  duty 
as  contained  in  the  simple  word  "obedience."  She  had 
been  submissive  and  obedient  all  her  life,  and  she  would 
be  obedient  no  longer.  Her  whole  soul  rebelled  against 
such  tyranny.  She  poured  forth  her  rebellion  in  loud 
cries  and  angry  ejaculations,  and  the  priest  never  rebuked 
her.  He  realized  that  this  tempestuous  outburst  was 
necessary;  he  also  realized,  unlike  Father  Tom,  that  in 
Beezey's  soul  were  depths  that  her  brothers  and  her  pas- 
tor could  never  fathom — that  the  course  pursued  by  them 
with  Amby  was  lost,  totally  lost,  on  Beezey. 

"Poor  child!  Poor  child!"  was  all  he  said,  as  she, 
spent  with  much  weeping,  sank  on  the  ground  in  the 
agony  that  is  known  only  once  in  life.  "And  now,"  he 
added  briskly,  "that  you  have  told  me  all,  I  won't  ask 
you  to  go  home ;  on  the  contrary,  I  insist  that  you  must 
not  go  there.  You  know,  I  suppose,  that  Malachy  refuses 
to  live  with  his — with  your  sister?  He  went  away." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  the  girl,  "and  I  stood  on  Point 
Mohr  to  see  the  last  of  him  on  earth." 

"Then  you  did  not  intend  to  go  with  him?" 

"  No,  no,  Father !  I  hope  you  don't  think  so  badly  of 
me.  I  only  wanted  to  see  him  once  more." 

"No,  I  don't  think  badly  of  you  at  all,"  said  the  priest. 
"On  the  contrary,  I  think  you  are  a  very  good  girl,  and 
your  wanting  to  see  him  was  all  very  natural.  However, 
to-night  you  will  stay  with  Molly  Mullaney,  a  good  and 
wise  old  woman.  I  will  take  you  to  her,  and  to-morrow 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  ,  59 

you  will  go  to  Miss  Eleanor  and  stay  while  things  are 
unsettled.  Trust  in  God,  my  child,  and  all  will  be  well. 
Do  you  hear  me?" 

"Yes,  Father,"  said  the  girl,  obediently,  preparing  to 
follow  his  lead.  She  was  pale,  and  spent  with  her  pas- 
sion of  tears,  joined  to  her  long  fast,  but  she  was  calm. 

The  lull  in  the  storm  was  as  deceitful  as  sunshine  in 
April.  The  winds  were  but  resting  for  a  great  effort  and 
would  have  deceived  a  stranger,  but  to  a  girl  like  Beezey, 
whose  life  had  been  spent  between  the  clouds  and  the 
waves,  the  signs  were  unmistakable. 

"Look,  look,  Father!"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  sky. 
"The  '  Gale-Mohr '  is  coming.  God  help  the  lads  at 
sea !" 

"Well,  hurry  up,  and  we  will  reach  Molly's  cabin  be- 
fore it  breaks." 

The  girl  stood  firmly.  "No,  no,  Father,"  she  said, 
"let  me  stay.  I  could  not  bear  to  be  indoors  now,  and 
I  might  be  of  some  help." 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  priest,  "do  as  you  like,  but 
remember  that  when  it's  over,  your  place  is  in  Molly 
Mullaney's  cabin.  I  will  go  and  prepare  her,  but  it  is 
best  for  you  to  keep  as  retired  and  quiet  as  possible." 

"I  will,  Father,  I  will,"  said  the  girl.  "I  will  not  show 
myself,  unless  it  is  necessary."  She  spoke  this  in  Gaelic, 
the  usual  language  of  the  people  of  the  coast  when  ex- 
cited, or  laboring  under  strong  emotion. 

"But  you  are  famished,"  said  the  priest,  "and  I'm  sure 
you  have  eaten  nothing  all  day." 

"I  can't  eat,"  said  the  girl.  "Let  me  stay,  oh,  let  me 
stay !  I  feel  that  I  am  needed." 

"And  you  won't  forget  to  go  to  Molly's?"  asked  the 
priest. 


60  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"I  won't  forget,  Father." 

While  she  was  speaking,  the  second  storm-cloud  burst. 
The  lightning  flashed  and  the  thunder  again  broke  the 
stillness  of  the  night.  During  the  flashes  of  lightning  the 
sea  looked  like  a  bed  of  burning  fire,  or  molten  glass 
breaking  into  a  thousand  pieces  against  the  rocky  shore. 
In  the  multitude  of  little  bays  and  inlets  along  the  coast, 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  not  a  boat  was  in  sight. 

"Thank  God!"  said  Father  Henry,  "the  boys  are  all 
in,  and  the  boats  are  safely  anchored !" 

All  was  darkness  again,  and  the  girl  was  breathing 
hard.  "He  is  away,"  she  said,  "he's  far  away  by  this 
time.  But  the  boys  saw  the  storm  coming  four  hours 
ago  and  came  in." 

"Let  us  hope,"  said  the  priest,  gently,  "that  he  has 
sought  shelter.  No  one  who  knows  the  coast  would 
venture  near  it  to-night." 

In  a  minute  the  darkness  cleared  away,  and  the 
lightning  flashes  succeeded  one  another  so  rapidly  that 
the  sea  was  lit  up  for  the  space  of  a  moment  with  almost 
the  brightness  of  day. 

Heavens !  There  they  were  on  the  boiling  waters,  the 
unfortunate  boats  that  had  not  sought  shelter!  They 
were  but  specks  on  the  seething  waters  that  appeared  to 
engulf  them  every  minute. 

"It's  the  'Colleen  Dhas '  from  Kilrush!  She  got 
turned  around  and  will  dash  against  the  rocks,  and  the 
little  boat —  I  don't  know  who  would  dare  go  out  in 
such  a  storm.  Look!  They're  throwing  out  their  sig- 
nals of  distress !  But  who  can  go  to  them  ?"  cried 
Beezey. 

A  shout  was  heard  along  the  shore,  and  then  an  an- 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  61 

swering  shout,  and  then  from  all  around  them  in  the 
darkness  the  shouting  broke  out  generally,  and  they  knew 
the  people  were  there  to  give  all  the  assistance  in  their 
power. 

"She's  on  th'  rocks!  She's  on  th'  rocks!  Th'  'Col- 
leen Dhas  '  is  on  th'  rocks,  an'  two  of  her  crew  are  yet 
livin',"  cried  a  voice  behind  them. 

There  was  plenty  of  excitement  now,  though  the  noise 
of  the  warring  elements  was  so  great  that  very  little 
could  be  heard.  Two  men  were  busy  manning  a  boat, 
but  volunteers  were  few. 

"It's  no  use  throwin'  away  more  lives!"  shrieked  a 
woman's  voice,  "they  can  be  saved  only  by  a  miracle! 
No  one  could  live  on  those  rocks !" 

"They'll  live  as  long  as  th'  boat  holds  together,"  was 
shouted  in  answer. 

"If  we  could  throw  them  a  line,  some  of  us  could  cross 
from  the  gap." 

"Arrah,  who'll  venture  on  th'  rocks  to-night?  They'd 
be  smashed  to  smithereens !" 

"Lord  have  mercy  on  their  poor  souls!"  said  the 
woman  in  front.  "It's  none  of  our  boys,  anyway." 

"Give  them  a  fightin'  chance  fer  their  lives!"  shouted 
a  lusty  voice,  "an'  throw  them  a  light!" 

"It  would  be  betther  to  throw  'em  a  rope,"  shouted  an- 
other. "It's  hard  to  keep  a  light  burnin'  in  this  storm." 

This  takes  some  time  to  tell,  but  it  all  occurred  in  a 
few  seconds.  Bonfires  were  lighted  in  sheltered  nooks, 
but  the  rain  fell  in  torrents  and  put  them  out  again,  and 
the  boat  with  its  handful  of  men  who  went  to  the  rescue 
was  driven  back  to  the  shore. 

"Go  higher  up !"  shouted  the  people,  "and  let  someone 


62  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

carry  out  th'  rope.  Who  will  go — who  will  go?"  No 
one  answered  for  a  minute. 

"I  will!"  said  a  woman's  voice,  calm  and  strong,  "I 
will!"  It  was  Beezey.  "I  know  the  rocks,"  she  con- 
tinued, before  they  had  recovered  from  their  surprise. 

"Shame!  shame!"  cried  a  dozen  voices,  "to  let  a  girl 
go  where  a  man  dare  not  venture." 

"It's  no  shame,"  shouted  Beezey,  "there's  no  man 
knows  the  rocks  as  well  as  I  do,  and  I  can  not  let  those 
men  die  before  my  eyes !"  While  she  was  speaking  she 
was  tying  the  rope  around  her  waist  and  preparing  for 
action. 

"This  is  nonsense,"  said  Father  Henry,  "you're  only 
adding  another  victim  to  the  rest.  You  will  never  return 
alive." 

"And  if  I  don't,  Father,"  she  said,  and  then  she 
paused,  and  perhaps  the  winds  carried  her  words  away, 
for  all  the  priest  heard  was,  "It's  no  matter,  anyway." 

She  was  gone  like  a  log  of  drift-wood  over  the  boiling 
sea,  leaving  the  other  end  of  the  rope  in  the  hands  of 
the  priest,  who  was  stupefied  with  astonishment. 

"Beezey!  Beezey!"  shouted  a  man  who  had  just  ap- 
peared on  the  scene. 

"Beezey!  Beezey!"  shouted  a  woman,  "come  back, 
come  back !" 

They  were  the  brother  and  sister  of  the  brave  girl  who 
had  gone  on  her  perilous  errand  of  mercy,  but  their  voices 
were  drowned  in  the  storm,  and  if  Beezey  had  heard 
them,  her  days  of  obedience  were  over. 

"There's  no  time  to  be  lost,"  said  Father  Henry.  "We 
must  not  be  put  to  shame  by  a  girl.  We  will  carry  the 
end  of  this  rope  to  the  other  side  of  the  '  Gap  '  and  get  as 
close  to  the  wreck  as  we  dare.  Who  will  come?" 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  G3 

Three  men  volunteered,  and  the  Driest  stepped  into  the 
boat  with  them. 

"Beezey!  Beezey  1"  cried  Amby,  from  the  shore,  "come 
back,  come  back !" 

"Beezey!"  shouted  her  brother  Dareen,  frantically, 
"come  back,  come  back;  for  God's  sake,  come  back!" 

But  only  the  wind  answered  him,  and  the  storm  raged 
on. 

When  the  last  effort  had  been  made  to  save  the 
strangers,  a  silence  like  that  of  death  fell  on  the  people. 
Nothing  could  be  heard  but  the  noise  of  the  storm  as  it 
lashed  the  waves  in  fury  against  the  shore.  The  women 
were  huddled  together  in  knots,  their  eyes  on  the  sea, 
their  lips  moving  in  prayer.  They  were  praying  for  their 
own  now — for  the  brave  men  and  the  noble  young  priest 
and  the  girl  who  had  gone  to  her  death.  The  men  stood 
with  bated  breath  and  clenched  hands  and  ears  strained 
for  the  slightest  sound.  At  last  a  woman,  whose  nerves 
had  been  strained  to  the  breaking-point,  broke  the  silence 
by  a  cry. 

"They're  lost!"  she  cried,  "they're  lost!  The  sca- 
the cruel  sea  has  them  all,  the  strangers  and  those  of  our 
own  blood!  Of  what  use  was  this  sacrifice — of  what 
use  ?" 

She  was  answered  by  a  shout  from  the  men  on  shore. 
The  lightning  was  playing  over  the  waters,  illuminating 
the  crested  waves  as  they  reared  in  foaming  hills  and 
sank  in  black  cavernous  hollows,  and  through  it  all  could 
be  seen  the  forms  of  men  struggling,  and  between  them 
was  a  line — a  slender  thread,  connecting  them  with  the 
tossing  life-boat  in  the  Bay. 

"Hurrah    for    Beezey!"    roared    a    hundred    voices. 
"  She's  got  them,  she's  got  them !" 
a 


64  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Don't,  don't!"  said  a  voice  in  agony.  "What  were 
their  lives  compared  to  hers?" 

"Oh,  Beezey!  Beezey!"    It  was  her  brother  Dareen. 

There  were  plenty  of  volunteers  now,  and  warmth  and 
cheer  for  the  famished  strangers,  who  in  truth  showed 
but  faint  signs  of  life. 

"Where  is  Beezey?  Where  is  Beezey?"  cried  a  fren- 
zied voice.  "Where  is  my  sisther?" 

Two  men  were  bearing  a  cloak-covered  burden,  which 
they  gently  laid  on  the  sand. 

"She's  dead!"  sobbed  a  woman,  uncovering  the  body. 
"She's  smashed  to  pieces,"  and  she  pointed  to  the  blood 
dripping  from  the  slender  arm  that  hung  limply  by  her 
side. 

"Beezey!  Beezey!"  screamed  her  brothers.  "Dead! 
Dead  fer  th'  sthrangers !  My  sisther,  oh,  my  sisther !" 

"Save  your  tears,"  said  the  clergyman,  coldly.  "It's 
not  so  easy  to  kill  your  sister.  She's  only  cut  her  feet 
and  broken  her  arm,  and  she  is  in  the  hands  of  the  best 
nurse  in  Connemara,  or  indeed,  of  all  Ireland.  I  will 
never  believe  that  Beezey  is  dead  till  Molly  Mullaney 
says  so." 

Molly  was  not  heeding  the  compliments.  She  was  busy 
with  cordials  and  bandages. 

The  storm  was  subsiding,  and  the  people  no  longer 
talked  in  shouting  tones,  so  when  an  excited  man  came 
forward  and  made  an  announcement,  it  was  heard  by 
every  man  and  woman  on  the  beach,  though  he  tried  to 
guide  his  communication  to  certain  ears. 

"Do  ye  know  who  Beezey  has  saved?  Wonderful, 
wonderful !" 

"Two  fish-huxters  from  Kilrush,  of  course;  but  where 
are  th'  rest  of  th'  boys  ?" 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  65 

"Oh,  they  dropped  off  before  th'  storm  set  fairly  in. 
Th'  man  we  saved  was  a  passenger,  but  he  was  a  sailor, 
too,  an'  thought  he  knew  th'  coast,  having  lived  here 
some  years  ago.  Th'  other  feller  he  picked  up  from  th' 
small  boat.  But  ye  don't  guess  who  he  is.  Wonderful, 
wonderful !" 

"Arrah,  out  wid  it,  man,  who  is  it?" 

"An'  to  think  they'd  meet,  an'  be  saved!  Wonderful, 
wonderful !" 

"  Stop  yer  '  wonderful '  an'  tell  us  who  it  is,  if  it's 
worth  tellin'." 

"Just  Malachy  Daniels,  that  was  marrit  this  mornin' 
to  her  sisther." 

"Th'  feller  that  was  runnin'  away?  An'  who's  th' 
other  ?" 

"A  boy  that  was  born  right  here  on  th'  coast,  an'  left 
it  by  th'  same  token  ten  years  ago  to  mak'  his  fortune. 
He  was  reported  drownded  off  th'  coast  of  Newfound- 
land, an'  he's  lookin'  fer  his  mother  an'  inquirin'  about 
his  sweetheart." 

"What's  his  name?  What's  his  name?"  It  was  the 
old  woman  who  had  begrudged  the  sea  its  wonted  toll 
and  the  sacrifice  of  life  to  save  strangers. 

"What's  his  name?"  repeated  the  woman.  Her  face 
looked  livid  in  the  early  dawn,  and  her  hands  shook. 

"Andy  McLaughlin,"  answered  the  man,  who  did  not 
know  her.  The  old  woman  fell  at  his  feet. 

"Didn't  ye  know  that  was  Kitty  McLaughlin,  whose 
son  was  reported  drownded  off  Newfoundland  ten  years 
ago  ?" 

"I  didn't  know" — apologetically,  as  he  stooped  to 
chafe  the  cold  hands.  "I  only  knew  that  her  name  was 


66  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

Kitty,  an'  that  she  was  desperately  poor.     But  she's  his 
mother,  shure  enough." 

"Th'  life  is  in  Beezey,"  interrupted  a  young  girl  who 
was  running  past  the  gossips.  "Th'  life  is  in  her,  but 
not  for  long,  an'  they're  bringin'  her  to  Molly  Mullaney's 
till  th'  docther  comes  from  Ballynahinch,  an'  Father 
Henry  has  taken  charge  of  th'  two  men." 


"Th'  girl  won't  listen  to  raison,  yer  reverence,  an'  it's 
a  fine  match,  a  fine  match.  He's  a  comfortable  man  en- 
tirely— ownin'  his  own  boat  an'  five  acres  of  good  land 
well  tilled." 

Dareen  was  speaking  and  twirling  his  hat  awkwardly 
between  his  fingers,  his  crafty  eyes  looking  furtively  at 
the  priest.  "-She's  betther  now,"  he  continued,  "an'  'tis 
time  fer  her  to  be  at  home." 

"And  you  called  at  Molly  Mullaney's,  and  made  this 
offer  to  your  sister?" 

"An'  a  very  good  offer  it  is,  yer  reverence.  Beezey 
has  nothin'  but  herself.  Bryan  Duffy  is  rich " 

"And  sixty-five,"  interrupted  the  priest.  "Tis  a  great 
difference,  Dareen." 

"Th'  difference  is  nothin',"  said  Dareen.  "What  does 
a  young  girl  know?  A  man  must  do  th'  best  he  can  for 
his  sisther,  an'  as  Bryan  Duffy's  wife  she'll  have  a  com- 
fortable home " 

"You  did  the  best  you  could  for  your  sister  Amby, 
and  how  did  it  turn  out  ?" 

"An*  whose  faut  is  that,  yer  reverence?  Who's 
keepin'  th'  man  away  from  his  wife?"  answered  Dareen, 
hotly. 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  67 

"Malachy  Daniels  is  not  Amby's  husband,"  said 
Father  Henry,  mildly,  "and  you  ought  to  know  it." 

"Malachy  Daniels  not  me  sisther's  husband!"  roared 
Dareen.  "An'  she  marrit  by  Father  Tom,  wid  her 
mother's  ring  that's  been  ia  th'  family  nigh  on  three 
hundred  year !" 

"Marriage  is  the  agreement  of  two  parties,  and  I'm 
very  sure  that  Malachy  had  nothing  to  say  in  the  matter. 
It's  no  marriage  at  all." 

"Ye'll  find  that  it  is!"  shouted  Dareen.  "An'  this  is 
fine  talk  from  a  priest." 

"It's  the  truth,  and  you  know  it.  You  filled  him  with 
whisky  for  your  own  purpose,  and  palmed  Amby  on  him, 
knowing  well  he  wanted  the  younger  girl." 

"I  had  to  go  by  ould  customs,"  said  Dareen,  evasively, 
"an'  I  was  th'  head  of  th'  family.  This  is  all  nonsense, 
Father.  Malachy  is  me  sisther's  husband  an'  if  he  puts 
a  furder  slight  on  her,  I'll  meet  him  like  a  man,  an'  settle 
th'  difference,  once  fer  all." 

"Malachy  will  never  live  with  Amby,  and  murder  will 
not  help  the  matter.  Beezey  will  never  return  to  you. 
She  intends  going  to  America  when  she  is  quite  strong. 
You  have  spoiled  both  your  sisters'  lives  for  no  benefit 
whatever  to  anyone." 

Father  Henry  did  not  dig  up  the  skeleton  in  Dareen's 
closet  without  the  intention  of  interring  it  again.  It  was 
a  daring  thing  to  try  to  break  a  marriage  solemnized  by 
the  Church,  but  our  hero  was  a  daring  man. 

Dareen's  face  was  ashen.  His  lips  trembled.  "Th' 
people  will  say  that  they — Malachy  an'  Beezey,  I  mean — 
have  run  away  together,"  he  said,  in  a  hoarse,  low  tone. 

"People  will  talk,"  affirmed  the  priest,  "but  all  your 


68  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

brave  challenges  will  only  make  matters  worse.  Let  the 
sleeping  dogs  lie,  Dareen." 

But  Dareen  was  not  the  man  to  let  sleeping  dogs  lie, 
and  Father  Henry  knew  it,  and  what  was  more,  he  did 
not  wish  him  to  let  them  lie.  The  fisherman  was  knead- 
ing his  cap  between  his  knotty  hands,  his  face  puckered 
up  into  wrinkles  of  perplexity  and  grief.  He  could  not 
deny  one  word  the  young  cleric  was  saying,  and  how  was 
he  to  surmount  the  difficulty? 

Beezey  had  escaped  his  authority,  and  Amby — well, 
she  was  at  home,  forsaken  and  rejected,  and  for  a  woman 
of  her  sterling  good  temper,  in  anything  but  a  hilarious 
state  of  mind. 

Dareen  was  a  man  of  strong  passions,  the  strongest 
being  pride  and  avarice.  He  was  as  daring  as  Father 
Henry  himself,  determined  and  wary  as  a  mountain  fox. 
The  priest  had  pierced  the  first  weak  spot  in  Dareen's 
armor — his  pride — and  was  now  preparing  for  a  tug  at 
his  heart-strings  before  he  attacked  his  avarice.  It  was 
a  supreme  moment,  and  much  depended  upon  it.  To 
bring  this  astute  son  of  the  sea  to  his  point  of  view,  he 
felt,  required  the  powers  of  a  Machiavelli,  but,  nothing 
daunted,  he  began : 

"I  must  give  you  credit,  Dareen,  for  the  way  you  have 
conducted  yourself  toward  your  sisters  previous  to  this, 
but,  as  everybody  says,  they  were  good  girls." 

"They  were  that,"  assented  Dareen. 

"Let  me  see;  Beezey  was  a  mere  child  when  your 
parents  died." 

"Just  a  toddler,  yer  reverence." 

"And  Amby  was  a  good-sized  girl." 

"Ay,  a  good  slip  of  a  girl,  mebbe  fourteen." 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  69 

"And  you  worked  and  toiled  for  them  like  a  father. 
You  denied  them  nothing.  You  remained  single  for  their 
sakes."  Dareen  nodded.  "I  have  heard  the  men  say 
Beezey  would  run  to  meet  you  as  you  returned  from  the 
fishing,  and  that  you  often  finished  your  day's  work  with 
the  child  asleep  on  your  shoulder." 

Dareen  nodded  again.  Yes,  he  remembered  it  well,  as 
well  as  if  it  were  yesterday,  and  the  tears  welled  into  his 
hard  eyes. 

"And  with  all  the  desire  to  do  the  best  for  your  sisters, 
you  have  made  them  the  talk  of  the  Island." 

Dareen  groaned.  He  was  a  poor  man,  but  his  family 
pride  would  not  rank  second  to  that  of  the  greatest  mon- 
arch on  earth.  What  were  kings  and  emperors  in  com- 
parison with  the  Buckleys,  who  were  warriors  and  chiefs 
before  they  were  driven  to  the  sea  to  fish  ?  As  fishermen 
they  still  retained  their  honor.  The  men  of  them  might 
drink  and  fight  occasionally,  but  who  ever  heard  a  slur 
cast  on  the  women?  They  were  always  above  reproach, 
and  now — now 

Dareen  was  humbled  to  the  dust.  "What  'ud  ye  advise 
me  to  do,  Father  ?  Oh,  tell  me  what  to  do !" 

Father  Henry  had  him  now  where  he  wanted  him. 
He  smiled  inwardly  with  satisfaction,  outwardly  he  only 
frowned.  He  walked  back  and  forth  for  a  few  moments 
in  the  circumscribed  space  unoccupied  by  his  books, 
thinking  deeply.  Then,  turning  to  his  visitor,  he  said : 

"Can  you  carry  the  blame  of  this  on  your  shoulders  as 
you  carried  your  little  sister  when  she  was  a  mere 
toddler?" 

"I  can  carry  anything,  yer  reverence,  that  will  help  us 
out  of  this  throuble,  but  I  don't  see  how  a  merrige  can 
be  undone." 


70  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"It  must  be  undone !"  cried  the  priest,  "for  it  is  against 
the  law  of  God  and  nature  for  a  man  to  marry  his  own 
sister." 

"To  marry  his  own  sisther!"  repeated  Dareen.  "An1 
who  marrit  his  own  sisther?" 

"You  did,  unhappy  man,  you  did,  and  what  punish- 
ment do  you  not  deserve  ?" 

"Marry  me  own  sisther?  Arrah,  how  could  I  do 
that?"  asked  the  man,  blankly. 

"You  can't  deny  it,"  continued  the  priest.  "You,  and 
you  alone,  answered  the  questions  that  should  have  been 
answered  by  the  groom.  When  Father  Tom  asked  '  Will 
you  take  this  woman  for  your  wedded  wife  ? '  it  was  you 
who  answered  '  I  will.'  Deny  it  if  you  can,  man,  deny 
it  if  you  can." 

Father  Henry  was  shaking  his  clenched  hand  in  close 
proximity  to  Dareen's  nose,  and  Dareen  was  very  white 
and  uncomfortable. 

"I — I — I  was  only  promptin'  Malachy,"  muttered 
Dareen,  humbly.  "He  didn't  hear  what  th'  priest  was 
savin'." 

"And  you  didn't  want  him  to,  you  didn't  want  him  to. 
You  made  him  drink  so  often  to  his  new  relations  that 
he  did  not  know  which  woman  he  was  standing  before." 

"I  but  followed  our  custom  in  Galilee." 

"You  followed  the  dictates  of  your  own  heart,  which 
was  for  forcing  the  young  fellow  to  marry  Amby,  when 
you  know  he  asked  for  your  younger  sister,  and  see  what 
trouble  you've  brought  yourself  into.  The  Bishop  has 
to  see  to  this  matter,  for  it  is  far  beyond  our  settlement 
now." 

"An'  how  many  do  ye  think  is  marrit  in  Galilee,  ay, 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  71 

an'  all  over,  that  knows  what  he  is  doin'  an'  what  woman 
he  is  standin'  ferninst  bekase  of  th'  few  dhrops  of  whiska 
he  has  swallowed  ?" 

"More  shame  to  those  who  give  them  the  whisky." 

"Arrah,  an'  would  yer  reverence  expect  a  man  to  stan' 
up  ferninst  a  strange  woman ?" 

"Dareen,"  said  the  priest,  "this  case  goes  to  the 
Bishop." 

"Murdher!"  cried  Dareen,  "what  can  he  do?" 

"What  he'll  do  to  you  I  am  not  quite  sure,  but  he  will 
insist  that  the  ceremony  be  performed  over  again,  with 
the  sober  bridegroom." 

"Then  Amby  will  never  get  a  man,"  rejoined  Dareen, 
with  conviction  in  his  tones,  "an'  she'll  be  put  to  shame 
before  th'  people — th'  people  of  Galilee." 

"No,  no,"  said  the  priest,  "Amby  will  refuse  him  be- 
fore the  people — the  people  of  Galilee,  and  all  the  islands 
between  it  and  far  Aran,  if  they  were  there." 

"An'  why  will  she  refuse  him  before  th'  people?" 

"Because  she  gave  her  promise  to  a  better  man  ten 
years  ago — a  man  who  has  visited  the  ends  of  the  earth 
for  means  to  make  her  happy.  Did  you  ever  hear  of 
Andy  McLaughlin?" 

"I  did,"  said  Dareen  eagerly,  "but  he  was  a  poor  lad 
when  I  knew  him,  wid  hardly  th'  price  of  a  shirt." 

"He  has  the  price  of  many  a  shirt  now.  He  has  five 
hundred  pounds  in  a  belt  around  his  waist,  and  five  hun- 
dred more  where  that  came  from.  He  was  always  fond 
of  Amby." 

"I  know,  I  know!  Shure,  I  kicked  him  into  th'  Bay 
fer  his  impudence,  years  ago.  Oh,  if  I  only  knew,  if  I 
only  knew! — five  hundred  pounds,  did  ye  say?  Five 


72  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

hundred  pounds!"  repeated  Dareen,  whose  brain  was 
reeling  from  the  thought  of  so  much  wealth.  "But 
shure,  I  kicked  him  into  th'  Bay  for  his  impudence." 

"True,"  said  Father  Henry,  smiling,  "but  he  had  no 
belt  then,  and  if  he  had,  it  was  empty." 

"An'  all  that  money  is  fer  Amby?"  questioned  Dareen, 
unheeding  the  sarcasm  in  the  priest's  words. 

"P'or  her  and  her  friends,"  resumed  the  priest,  "and 
he  has  made  his  mother  comfortable  besides.  Indeed, 
she  is  most  anxious  that  he  should  get  married,  as  it  will 
keep  him  from  wandering  away  again." 

"But  Amby  has  but  th'  one  eye  now." 

"He  knows  that,"  said  the  priest,  "but  it  makes  no 
difference.  He  has  come  back  to  marry  her.  She  is  the 
only  woman  in  the  world  for  him.  The  two  men  who 
have  had  such  an  unhappy  experience  are  staying  to- 
gether and  talking  things  over." 

"An'  Amby's  merrige — hem,  th'  merrige  can  be  done 
away  wid?" 

"If  you  will  take  the  blame,  and  the  penance." 

"Indeed,  an'  I  will,  yer  reverence,  every  bit  of  it.  Five 
hundred  pounds — did  yer  reverence  say  five  hundred 
pounds  ?" 

"And  the  penance,  Dareen?" 

"I'll  do  th'  penance,  too.  I'll  own  up  to  me  faut  before 
th'  people  of  Galilee  an'  all  th'  people.  'Twas  I  that  did 
th'  wrong,  an'  not  me  sisthers.  I  answered  th'  priest, 
instid  of  Malachy.  Five  hundred  pounds,  five  hundred 
pounds !" 

"The  penance  is  rather  severe — you  must  wear  a  white 
sheet  about  you,  and  stand  in  front  of  the  altar  for  seven 
Sundays." 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  73 

"Well,  thank  God,  th'  white  sheet  isn't  fer  me  sisthers; 
but  it's  mighty  severe,  all  th'  same.  Couldn't  it  be  a 
sail?  Now,  I  don't  mind  bein'  wrapped  up  in  a  sail. 
Many  a  dacent  feller  was  wrapped  up  in  a  sail,  an'  widout 
any  faut  of  his  own,  ayther,  an'  widout  his  consent. 
Five  hundred " 

"Well,  we'll  see  about  the  sail,  Dareen.  You  ought  to 
be  very  glad,  however,  to  get  off  so  cheap.  Maybe  the 
Bishop  would  oblige  us  to  let  the  marriage  stand,  and 
exile  you  for  life  for  marrying  your  sister." 

"God  bless  us!"  interrupted  Dareen. 

"The  best  thing  you  can  do — in  fact  the  only  thing, 
if  you  want  this  affair  to  come  out  all  right — is  to  say 
nothing.  Go  about  your  work  as  usual,  and  leave  the 
rest  to  me.  I  will  see  the  authorities  and  when  all  is 
settled  you  will  come  forward  like  a  man,  and  take  your 
penance.  You  will  wear " 

"I'll  wear  anything  in  th'  chapel  for  th'  good  of  me 
soul,  but  outside — let  one  of  them  say  a  word  to  me  out- 
side, an'  I'll " 

"And  now,"  said  the  priest  to  himself,  as  he  watched 
the  strong  figure  of  Dareen  disappear  in  the  mist,  "and 
now  I  have  to  face  Father  Tom." 


Father  Tom  was  very  much  disturbed.  He  was  dining 
with  his  curate,  and  was  engaged  with  the  second  leg  of 
a  wild  duck.  Father  Tom  liked  a  good  dinner  as  well 
as  other  men  of  his  age,  in  fact,  it  was  the  only  meal  he 
was  ever  sure  of  at  home,  and  here  was  this  young  priest, 
who  should  be  deferring  to  his  judgment,  actually  argu- 
ing a  point  in  theology  with  him. 


74 

"What  God  has  joined  together,  let  no  man  put 
asunder,"  said  Father  Tom. 

"What  God  has  joined  together,  let  no  man  put 
asunder,"  repeated  Father  Henry  after  his  superior, 
slowly.  "But  did  God  put  them  together?" 

"I  was  there,"  said  Father  Tom,  looking  at  his  curate 
with  a  mild  fierceness  that  would  have  subdued  ninety- 
nine  young  clerics  out  of  a  hundred  under  similar  circum- 
stances, "I  was  there  in  my  humble  capacity  of  priest  of 
the  Holy  Catholic  Church.  I  performed  the  ceremony." 

"If  marriage  is  a  sacrament,  it  is  also  a  contract," 
went  on  Father  Henry,  not  heeding  the  personal  weight 
given  the  matter  by  the  older  priest,  "and  if  either  party 
refuse  to  take  on  the  vows  necessary  to  that  state,  then  it 
is  no  longer  a  contract.  Fraud  or  deceit  will  not  make  a 
marriage." 

"Those  who  are  guilty  of  deceit  will  be  punished  ac- 
cording to  our  Holy  Mother,  the  Church " 

"Step-mother,"  urged  the  young  priest,  slowly. 

"Step-mother,"  repeated  Father  Tom,  wildly,  "is  that 
a  respectful  way  to  speak  of  our  Holy  Mother,  the 
Church?" 

"I  was  not  speaking  of  our  Mother  the  Church,"  an- 
swered Father  Henry,  "I  was  speaking  of  the  work  of  a 
step-mother." 

"Step-mother?"  again  repeated  Father  Tom,  too 
stunned  for  further  speech. 

"A  real  mother  looks  out  for  the  happiness  and  wel- 
fare of  her  children.  If  they  are  in  trouble  she  extricates 
them ;  if  they  are  in  pain  she  pillows  them  on  her  breast. 
Neither  fraud  nor  deceit  can  build  barriers  high  enough 
to  divide  her  from  those  who  are  dearer  to  her  than  her 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  75 

life.  Therefore  I  say  that  this  is  not  the  work  of  our 
Mother  the  Church.  Someone  has  taken  her  place  for 
awhile.  It  is  very  convenient  to  throw  all  mistakes  and 
misfortunes  on  the  shoulders  of  Mother  Church,  but  she 
never  made  the  match  between  Malachy  Daniels  and 
Amby  Buckley.  It  was  whisky  and  lies,"  said  Father 
Her^ry  with  decision,  "and  something  must  be  done  at 
once." 

Father  Tom  opened  his  mouth,  but  no  words  came. 
He  stared  at  his  curate  singularly. 

"What  can  be  done?  Nothing.  We  cannot  and  must 
not  establish  a  precedent  in  Connemara.  After  awhile 
the  young  people  will  begin  to  see  things  in  a  proper  light. 
They  will  become  reconciled.  I  have  seen  more  of  life 
than  you,"  he  said  at  length,  but  without  decision. 

"Never,"  said  Father  Henry.  "Things  are  just  going 
from  bad  to  worse.  Four  persons  are  made  miserable, 
and  two  homes  will  be  broken  up." 

"Four?"  repeated  Father  Tom. 

"Yes.  Amby's  former  sweetheart,  a  man  to  whom  she 
had  given  a  promise  ten  years  ago,  has  returned  to  marry 
her — Andy  McLaughlin — you  remember  him." 

"Yes,  yes,  a  luckless  but  a  warm-hearted,  fine-looking 
fellow.  He  is  Kitty  Mclaughlin's  son,  poor  old  woman," 
responded  Father  Tom. 

"She's  not  very  poor  now,"  said  the  young  priest,  sig- 
nificantly. "If  her  son  was  luckless  in  Connemara,  he 
was  lucky  in  Australia.  He  has  made  his  mother  com- 
fortable, and  is  anxious  to  do  the  same  by  his  wife." 

"I  heard  something  about  his  coming  home  the  night  of 
the  big  storm,"  said  the  pastor,  looking  interested,  "but  I 
heard  nothing  of  all  this." 


76  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

The  young  priest  smiled  inwardly.  This  quietness  and 
inactivity  had  been  all  advised  by  him — till  things  were 
arranged  to  his  satisfaction.  Father  Tom  had  forgotten 
his  dinner  and  was  thinking  deeply. 

"If  the  ceremony,  such  as  it  was,  had  resulted  in  the 
making  of  a  home,  I  would  have  nothing  to  say,"  re- 
sumed the  young  priest,  "but  the  bride  is  rejected  and 
alone,  the  man  leaving  her  as  soon  as  he  found  out  his 
mistake.  Her  sister  is  away  from  home  and  intends  also 
to  become  a  wanderer.  Andy,  after  a  few  weeks  spent 
with  his  mother,  will  leave  for  foreign  lands,  and  all  are 
miserable — intensely  miserable.  Then  there  is  scandal, 
too.  Who  can  bridle  people's  tongues?  Who  will  not 
say  that  Beezey  and  her  lover  have  eloped  together,  when 
in  fact  the  young  girl  would  rather  die  than  do  anything 
so  dishonorable.  Who  can  say,"  continued  the  young 
priest,  warmly,  "what  will  become  of  so  young  and  beauti- 
ful a  girl  as  Beezey,  when,  knowing  nothing  outside  of 
her  daily  work,  her  lines  are  cast  in  a  strange  land  ?  Em- 
bittered by  injustice  and  wrong,  and  deprived  of  the 
dearest  tie  in  life  by  those  who  should  have  watched  over 
her  interests,  with  religion  sanctioning  the  wrong — who 
will  promise  that  she  will  be  true  to  the  faith  of  her 
fathers,  or  indeed  believe  in  the  existence  of  a  God  ?" 

"Beezey  has  brains  as  well  as  beauty,"  said  Father 
Tom,  hastily,  "and  I'm  sure  can  be  depended  upon  to 
look  out  for  herself  anywhere.  But  it  is  a  bad  business, 
I'll  allow.  We  can  write  to  the  Bishop,  but  I  hate  to 
have  anything  reported  from  the  parish." 

"The  Bishop  is  in  Europe,"  returned  Father  Henry, 
dryly. 

"Well,  well,  we  must  wait  till  he  comes  home." 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  77 

"After  leaving  Rome,"  resumed  Father  Henry,  as  if 
reading  from  a  book,  "His  Lordship  will  go  to  Spas  for 
his  health,  then  make  a  tour  of  the  cathedrals  in  England 
and  his  own  country,  and  by  that  time  the  grass  will  be 
growing  over  two  more  graves." 

"Bosh!"  said  Father  Tom,  "no  one  ever  died  of  dis- 
appointed affection.  It's  a  long  time  to  wait,  I'll  allow." 

"They  cannot  wait,"  said  Father  Henry,  "they  must 
not  wait." 

"Must  not?"  echoed  Father  Tom,  sharply.  "It  seems 
to  me,  young  man,  that  you  are  taking  too  much  on  your- 
self. The  Bishop " 

"Would  feel  very  angry  if  he  heard,  as  he  is  liable  to 
hear  any  day,  that  a  man  in  his  diocese  has  married  his 
own  sister." 

"A  man  married  his  own  sister!"  roared  Father  Tom, 
now  fully  exasperated. 

"Dareen  has  confessed  that  to  me  to-day,  and  is  willing 
to  confess  it  before  the  whole  parish.  Indeed,  it  is  heavy 
on  his  conscience." 

"Pax  vobiscum!"  muttered  Father  Tom,  rejecting  at 
the  last  moment  an  English  word  that  was  more  forcible 
than  polite. 

"He  says,"  continued  Father  Henry,  "that  he  an- 
swered every  question  you  put  to  the  bridegroom  dur- 
ing the  ceremony.  The  young  man  was  propped  up  for 
the  occasion,  and " 

"It's  the  whisky,"  muttered  Father  Tom,  "oh,  the  men 
of  Galilee !" 

"There  was  such  a  crowd  and  so  much  excitement, 
that  you  probably  did  not  notice  the  substitution  of  bride- 
grooms  " 


78  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Thunder  and  lightning!"  said  Father  Tom,  in  Gaelic. 
Then  he  pushed  away  from  the  table,  leaned  back,  and 
shut  his  eyes. 

"Dareen  did  not  mean  to  marry  his  sister,"  continued 
the  priest,  "he  simply  wanted  the  ceremony  complete  be- 
fore the  bridegroom  recovered  from  the  effects  of  the 
whisky,  never  doubting  that  it  would  end  according  to 
his  wishes.  Now  he  is  willing  to  swear " 

"I'm  sick  and  weary  of  the  whole  matter,"  said  Father 
Tom.  "I  wish  I  was  a  thousand  miles  from  Galilee  and 
the  hills  of  Connemara.  The  Bishop " 

"Won't  break  his  heart  about  what  occurs  on  this  in- 
significant island,  or,  indeed,  in  the  whole  Kingdom  of 
Connemara,  but  there  are  some  beautiful  souls  among 
the  fishermen  of  Galilee  that  look  to  him  for  spiritual 
guidance." 

"And  how  can  I  take  the  responsibility  of  breaking  a 
marriage — even  a  Galilee  marriage  ?  The  Bishop " 

"You  haven't  had  a  vacation  for  two  years,  Father 
Tom,"  said  the  young  priest,  affectionately.  "You  have 
a  sister  in  Kilrush,  and  one  in  Boyle.  Now  is  your  time 
to  go.  A  few  things  will  happen  when  you  are  gone,  but 
the  raw  young  priest  you  left  in  your  stead  will  be  respon- 
sible for  them.  My  shoulders  are  broad  enough  for  the 
burden,  and — the  Bishop  knows  me  pretty  well." 

A  look  of  relief  overspread  Father  Tom's  face,  which 
had  looked  strangely  careworn  of  late.  He  had  fretted 
over  this  last  trouble  more  than  he  would  care  to  own,  but 
had  seen  no  way  out  of  his  difficulty  till  this  daring 
young  man  had  grappled  with  it.  Another  month  of 
this  life  would  send  him  to  the  old  graveyard  on  the  hill. 
'Twere  best  to  take  the  good  that  was  open  to  him,  and 
he  did. 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  79 

"I'll  give  them  a  temperance  lecture  Sunday,"  said  the 
young  priest,  as  he  shook  hands  with  the  departing  pastor 
on  the  Kilrush  boat,  "and  bring  the  other  business  on 
gradually.  Everything  will  be  all  right."  Father  Tom 
smiled. 

"It's  mighty  convenient  to  have  something  on  which 
to  lay  the  blame  for  all  our  troubles,  but  I'm  afraid  I  am 
to  blame  a  little  myself.  I  should  have  made  sure  of 
everything  being  all  right,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh. 

"It  will  be  no  harm  to  give  the  whisky  a  crack  by  the 
way.  They  drink  too  much  of  it  in  Galilee,"  urged 
Father  Henry. 

"And  yet,  if  you  had  seen  those  poor  fellows  coming 
in  after  a  night's  fishing,  half  drowned  and  nearly  frozen 
to  death,  you'd  wonder  how  they'd  get  along  without  it." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  Father  Henry. 


It  was  a  goodly  sized  congregation  that  faced  the 
young  priest  in  the  little  white  chapel  by  the  sea  on  the 
following  Sunday,  with  Dareen  on  the  first  seat  near 
the  altar. 

On  the  women's  side  were  Amby  and  Beezey,  with  old 
Kitty  McLaughlin  in  a  brand  new  cloak  and  cap,  sitting 
close  beside  them.  On  the  opposite  side  was  Malachy, 
and  a  little  behind  him  was  Andy  McLaughlin.  Both 
men  were  pale  and  thin  from  their  long  sickness,  but 
neither  looked  unhappy. 

Father  Henry's  sermon  was  on  temperance,  and  he 
handled  his  subject  well.  It  was  not  a  scathing,  scorch- 
ing "taste-not,  handle-not"  discourse,  because  he  knew 
his  people  and  their  work.  He  counseled  temperance,  not 
a 


80  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

abstinence.  "One  virtue  at  a  time,  not  all  at  once," 
thought  the  priest. 

The  church  was  gay  with  the  scarlet  skirts  and  blue 
bodices  of  the  girls  and  the  snow-white  caps  and  blue 
cloaks  of  the  women,  and  the  air  was  laden  with  the  deep 
salt  breath  of  the  sea.  Father  Henry  particularly  de- 
nounced the  habit  of  drinking  at  weddings. 

"It  is  nonsense  to  pretend  you  want  protection  from 
the  wet  and  cold  there,"  he  said,  "and  an  overindulgence 
in  liquor  brings  on  quarreling  and  disgrace.  A  man 
about  to  receive  a  sacrament  must  be  perfectly  sober  and 
in  his  right  mind." 

"Two  glasses,  yer  reverence,  to  put  a  little  courage  in 
a  man,"  suggested  a  voice  in  the  rear. 

"No,  no,"  replied  the  priest,  who  knew  that  this  was 
meant  not  as  a  signal  for  rebellion,  but  a  request  for  fair 
play  from  men  who  meant  to  obey  the  law  "as  far  as 
raison  an'  no  more."  "No,  no;  if  a  man  must  drink  at 
his  own  wedding,  let  him  drink  the  two  glasses  after, 
not  before  the  ceremony.  I  request  it,  I  demand  it,  and 
you  know  me  too  well  to  think  I  would  ask  too  much. 
There  is  a  reason  for  this.  On  account  of  this  drinking 
at  weddings  there  has  risen  a  great  trouble  in  our  midst. 
By  an  accident  brought  on  by  this  same  wholesale  drink- 
ing oi  whisky,  a  few  weeks  ago,  I  am  obliged  to  perform 
a  marriage  ceremony  over  again.  To  make  the  sacra- 
ment of  matrimony  binding,  it  is  necessary  to  get  the 
consent  of  both  contracting  parties.  At  the  wedding  I 
speak  of,  the  man  had  drunk  so  many  healths  that  some- 
one had  to  answer  the  questions  for  him,  and  by  this 
answering  of  questions  (unknown,  I'm  sure,  by  the 
officiating  clergyman,  Father  Tom),  Dareen  Buckley 
married  his  own  sister." 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  81 

The  holy  place  they  were  in  did  not  restrain  the  con- 
gregation from  giving  way  to  a  burst  of  mirth,  which 
the  clergyman  promptly  suppressed.  It  showed  itself 
every  now  and  then  in  a  subdued  giggle,  or  a  smothered 
"ha,  ha!"  followed  by  a  cough  cropping  up  every  now 
and  then  from  all  sides. 

"Arrah,  look  at  him  now,  wid  his  eye  in  th'  corner,  th' 
rogue,  watchin'  to  see  who's  doin'  th'  laughin',  that  he 
may  lay  th'  weight  of  his  arm  on  them  when  he  gets  them 
outside,"  whispered  one  woman,  indicating  Dareen,  who 
was  standing  humbly  before  the  altar. 

"Oh,  wouldn't  ye  think  such  a  wise  man  'ud  be  too 
cute  to  get  himself  into  such  a  scrape?  Oh,  I'll  die  wid 
th'  laughin' !" 

"Marrit  his  own  sisther,  eyah;  that  came  of  bein'  too 
anxious  to  get  her  settled."  And  for  a  brief  space  the 
whispering  went  on,  while  the  offender  stood,  square- 
jawed  and  immovable,  facing  the  scoffers. 

"I  wouldn't  be  in  his  shoen  fer  a  ten-poun'  note." 

"Nor  I  fer  a  hundred.  Oh,  if  it  had  been  anyone  but 
Dareen,  I'd  pity  him,  fer  he's  always  thryin'  to  get  th' 
best  of  everyone,  till  at  last  he  thried  his  hand  on  th' 
Lord  himself." 

"That's  thrue.  Do  ye  remember  th'  share  in  th'  load 
of  salmon  he  thried  to  chate  me  out  of?" 

Dareen  did  not  hear  what  the  people  said,  but  being  a 
man  of  brains,  he  guessed  along  the  line  of  the  re- 
marks very  closely.  He  was  prepared  for  all  and 
more,  and  he  never  flinched  nor  moved  an  eye-lash. 

"I  have  to  remind  you  again,  that  this  is  the  house  of 
God,"  said  Father  Henry,  gently,  "also  that  as  Dareen 
has  confessed  his  fault,  and  is  willing  to  do  the  penance 


82  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

imposed  on  him  by  our  holy  Mother,  the  Church,  you 
must  be  ready  to  treat  him  with  consideration  and 
charity.  You  remember  the  sad  circumstances  attend- 
ing the  wedding,  and  how  the  young  man  left  his -bride 
at  the  altar,  refusing  to  remain  even  one  hour  in  her 
company.'5 

There  was  such  a  nodding  of  heads  and  fluttering  of 
blue  cloaks  as  would  have  almost  turned  the  mill  at 
Thor-na-Gopal.  Indeed,  they  had  all  heard  of  it,  and 
had  talked  it  over  till  the  subject  was  "tathered  to  rags," 
feeling  sorry  for  the  bride  that  had  been  put  to  such 
open  shame.  'Twas  a  pity,  too,  for  the  Buckley  girls 

Father  Henry  seemed  to  divine  their  thoughts,  for  he 
added:  "Dareen  is  doing  penance,  not  for  any  fault  of 
his  sisters,  but  for  his  own;  about  them  there  can  be 
but  one  opinion,  and  that  opinion  is  that  better  girls 
never  lived  in  this  country,  or  any  other  country." 

Another  spasm  of  nodding  and  fluttering  in  affirma- 
tion of  the  priest's  words.  A  gleam  of  satisfaction  stole 
over  Dareen's  stern  face  at  this  open  praise  of  his  sisters, 
and  remained  there  during  the  rest  of  the  service. 

"Malachy  did  right  in  leaving  Amby  Buckley  at  the 
altar,"  continued  the  priest,  "for  she  was  not  his  wife 
according  to  the  laws  of  the  Church,  and  now  Dareen 
will  make  a  public  confession  and  apology  for  the  scandal 
he  has  given  and  the  trouble  he  has  made." 

"I  did  it,"  said  Dareen,  with  a  shake  of  his  shaggy 
head.  "I'll  own  to  th'  truth."" 

"'Tis  th'  first  time  ye  ever  did  that  in  yer  life,"  mut- 
tered a  voice  in  the  rear. 

"I  answered  th'  questions  that  th'  priest  axed  Malachy, 
he  bein'  too  far  gone  in  liquor  to  undherstand  anythin' 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  83 

that  was  said  to  him,"  continued  Dareen,  "an*  be  th' 
same  token  'twas  I  who  made  him  dhrink  against  his 
will,  fer  raisons  of  me  own." 

"I  was  right  ferninst  th'  young  couple  an'  can  vouch 
fer  th'  truth  o'  that,  fer  Malachy  never  opened  his  mouth, 
an'  th'  answers  all  came  from  D&reen,  who  was  holdin' 
th'  boy  up,"  affirmed  a  hoarse  voice  behind.  It  belonged 
to  Dareen 's  rival  in  the  fishery. 

Dareen  paused  like  a  child  who  had  forgotten  his  les- 
son, and  then  added,  "I  humbly  beg  th'  pardon  of  God 
an'  his  reverence,  an'  th'  whole  congregation  present  this 
day,  an'  am  willin'  to  do  th'  penance  imposed  on  me  by 
th'  Church." 

"Did  ye  ever  hear  th'  like.  He's  an  out-an'-out  rascal. 
I  wondher  what  penance  Father  Henry  will  put  on  him  ?" 
came  in  whispers  from  the  gossips  who  were  gloating 
over  Dareen's  misery. 

"You  will  stand  at  the  church  door  for  seven  Sundays 
with  a  broken  oar  in  your  hand,  and  a  sail  around  you  in 
punishment  for  the  sacrilege  you  have  committed." 

A  shudder  ran  through  the  congregation. 

"Just  like  death,"  came  the  irrepressible  whisper,  "but 
shure  he  deserves  it." 

"And  now,"  continued  the  priest  in  a  more  cheerful 
tone,  "the  young  people  will  please  step  forward  and  go 
through  the  ceremony  without  any  outside  help.  Amby 
Buckley,  Malachy  Daniels." 

The  couple  came  at  his  call,  and  stood  before  the  altar. 
Amby  was  modest  and  composed,  while  her  partner  was 
plainly  nervous.  There  was  a  craning  of  necks  and 
jostlings  and  whisperings,  but  at  the  first  word  of  the 
priest  a  silence  like  death  fell  on  the  people. 


84  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"And  now,  before  we  start,  I  want  everyone  to  hear 
the  words  of  the  contracting  parties,  so  that  there  will  be 
no  mistake,  for  the  full  consent  of  both  parties  is  neces- 
sary to  a  marriage.  I  am  told,  also,  to  extend  an  invita- 
tion to  the  wedding-supper  to  the  whole  congregation, 
and  as  I  intend  to  spend  a  few  hours  there  myself,  we 
must  unite  in  making  it  an  orderly  as  well  as  enjoyable 
affair." 

"Very  dacent  of  Dareen,"  and  "'Twill  be  a  great  wed- 
din'  entirely,"  were  whispered  again,  and  popular  opin- 
ion, fickle  as  an  April  shower,  was  veering  toward  the 
disgraced  fisheuman. 

The  marriage  ceremony  proceeded  amid  intense  silence. 
Malachy's  reply  was  low  but  distinct,  and  now  came 
Amby's  turn. 

"Ambrosia,  will  you  have  this  man  for  your  wedded 
husband,  to  have  and  to  hold,  in  sickness  and  in  health  ?" 

"No!"  came  from  the  woman,  in  loud  tones,  "I  will 
not !" 

There  was  a  great  sensation.  The  people  who  were 
looking  to  their  wedding-supper  were  bitterly  disap- 
pointed. 

"For  I  gave  my  promise,"  she  continued,  "to  another 
man  ten  years  ago." 

"Another  crotch  in  th'  merrige,"  was  whispered. 

"Arrah,  what  'ud  ye  expect  of  th'  Buckleys?" 

The  priest's  voice  again  arrested  the  wondering  people. 

"Is  the  man  present  that  this  woman  gave  her  promise 
to?" 

"He  is,"  was  answered  in  a  rich,  brave  voice,  "ready 
an'  willin'  to  fill  th'  promise  given  to  her  ten  years  ago." 

Greater  sensation  and  unconcealed  satisfaction  were 
evident  on  the  part  of  the  people. 


BEEZEY  OF  GALILEE  85 

"Come  forward,"  said  the  priest,  "for  there  is  no 
time  like  the  present." 

A  tall,  bronzed  man  marched  bravely  up  the  aisle.  His 
arm  was  still  in  a  sling,  but  the  people  recognized  Andy 
McLaughlin,  who  was  saved  by  Beezey  the  night  of  the 
storm.  There  was  no  hitch  in  the  proceedings  now. 
Only  for  the  sacred  edifice  the  people  would  have  cheered. 

"And  now,"  said  the  priest,  when  the  ceremony  was 
over  that  made  Amby  Buckley  and  Andy  McLaughlin 
man  and  wife,  "there  is  another  couple  I  would  like  to 
join  in  the  holy  bonds  of  matrimony.  Beezey  Buckley 
and  Malachy  Daniels,  come  forward." 

Here  was  a  sensation,  indeed!  The  brave  girl,  the 
"Colleen  Dhas,"  whom  everybody  loved!  Nothing  could 
restrain  the  people  now.  They  wept  and  laughed  with 
the  ready  sympathy  of  the  true  Gael,  and  when  the  cere- 
mony that  united  the  young  couple  was  concluded,  they 
carried  the  bride  home  in  their  arms.  She  was  married 
in  her  fisher-maid's  dress,  looking  as  trim  as  a  Port-a- 
Down  cutter  in  her  neat  blue  bodice  and  red  skirt,  and  as 
beautiful  as  a  mountain  rose. 

Never  before  was  such  a  wedding.  There  was  no 
stint  of  anything  but  whisky,  and  there  wasn't  much 
stint  of  even  that,  if  one  understood  the  geography  of 
Dareen's  boat-house  and  caught  the  wink  at  the  proper 
time.  But  all  the  whisky  between  Coleraine  and  Ballyna- 
hinch  could  not  make  an  ounce  of  disturbance  at  Beezey's 
wedding,  for  the  first  man  that  would  open  his  mouth  to 
emit  a  disorderly  word  would  have  been  thrown  into  the 
sea  before  he  had  time  to  emit  another. 

It  was  a  double  wedding,  and  though  the  real  heroine 
of  the  evening  was  Beezey,  yet  Amby  and  her  lucky  hus- 
band came  in  for  due  share  of  congratulations  and  re- 


86  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

spect.  There  was  a  double,  nay,  a  treble  supply  of  music, 
too,  for  every  piper  that  could  be  reached  in  a  given  time 
was  conveyed  to  Galilee  as  quick  as  boat  or  pony  could 
bring  them,  so  that  while  one  was  resting  the  other  could 
supply  music  for  the  busy  feet. 

The  wedding  lasted  three  days,  and  the  memory  of  it 
will  live  long  in  the  lives  of  those  who  had  the  pleasure 
of  participating  in  it. 

Dareen  would  not  forego  one  inch  of  his  penance,  and 
refused  to  have  it  commuted,  though  that  privilege  was 
offered  to  him  more  than  once.  For  seven  Sundays  he 
stood  at  the  church  door,  with  his  broken  oar  and  rem- 
nant of  a  sail,  and  no  one  was  daring  enough  to  turn  his 
penance  into  a  jest,  maybe  for  fear  of  the  oar — who 
knows  ? 

Very  soon  after  the  wedding,  Malachy  and  his  young 
wife  were  sent,  at  the  recommendation  of  Father  Henry, 
on  the  Fishery  Commission  to  France  to  learn  improved 
methods  of  fishing  with  the  new  steam  propellers,  which 
he  had  been  instrumental  in  getting  for  his  people.  They 
were  gone  two  years  and  became  great  favorites  with  the 
French.  Malachy  and  "la  belle  Irlandaise,"  as  they 
called  his  wife,  succeeded  in  doing  much  for  the  poor 
fishermen  of  Galilee,  and  indeed,  for  all  the  fisheries 
along  the  coast. 

They  returned  much  improved  by  travel  and  inter- 
course with  the  most  polished  nation  in  Europe,  but  the 
change  had  not  extended  to  their  hearts.  Beezey  was 
then,  as  always,  the  pet  of  the  people,  the  girl  with  the 
clear  head  and  the  big  heart,  the  friend  of  justice  and 
order,  and  a  power  with  Father  Tom  for  the  suppression 
of  "whiska"  at  weddings,  yet  she  was  to  the  last  always 
their  own  "Colleen  Dhas,"  their  Beezey,  sweet  Beezey 
of  Galilee. 


NED  THE  INNOCENT  87 


NED  THE  INNOCENT. 

"We'll  miss  the  coach,  boys,"  said  Woods.  "This  twi- 
light is  mighty  deceiving — to  Americans.  We  could 
finish  this  job  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow  brings  its  own  work,"  I  replied,  I'm 
afraid  a  little  pompously,  now  that  I  look  back  at  it — 
for  was  I  not  the  leader  of  the  party?  "To-morrow  we 
take  in  the  'auld  fort,'  as  the  natives  style  it." 

"There's  the  stage  now,  crawling  round  the  bend  like 
an  overgrown  bluebottle,"  yelled  Kane. 

"Let  it  crawl,"  said  Foster,  calmly.  "We  know  a  short 
cut." 

"Then  cut  for  your  lives,"  shouted  McCormick.  "Kane 
and  I  will  follow  with  the  instruments.  I  want  my 
supper." 

A  short  cut  on  the  level  is  one  thing,  a  short  cut  over 
a  mountain  side  is  another.  Like  the  twilight,  the  moun- 
tain was  very  deceiving.  From  the  top  it  appeared 
smooth  and  inviting,  but  the  foot  was  a  surer  test  than 
the  eye,  as  we  soon  proved  to  our  misfortune.  Into  a 
tangle  of  vines  we  plunged,  and  soon  went  head-foremost 
into  a  bed  of  nettles  and  rough  stones. 

We  were  not  much  injured,  but  when  we  recovered  our 
hats  and  our  equilibrium  the  old  coach  was  passing,  ap- 
parently, just  beneath  us  on  the  road.  We  yelled,  shouted, 
fairly  shrieked  in  our  desire  to  be  heard ;  but  the  driver, 


88  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

tooting  away  on  his  horn,  passed  us  by  without  a  sign. 
He  had  evidently  been  disappointed  at  not  finding  us  at 
the  accustomed  place,  and  was  intent  on  doing  his  duty 
on  the  horn. 

I  threw  myself  on  the  ground,  fairly  exhausted.  The 
other  two  were  yet  far  behind.  We  could  hear  them 
making  their  way  through  the  brambles,  guiding  them- 
selves by  the  sounds  of  our  voices,  for  it  was  now  pretty 
dark. 

"That  infernal  coach  was  quite  close  to  us,"  said 
Foster.  "They  must  have  done  that  on  purpose." 

"And  lose  a  fare?  No  fear;  money  is  not  so  plentiful 
in  Ireland." 

"That  lunatic  with  the  horn  was  quite  close  to  us," 
continued  Foster,  still  lamenting.  "Surely  he  must  have 
heard  our  yells." 

"Miscalculation,  my  boy,  miscalculation!"  said  Kane, 
showing  up  behind  and  puffing  like  a  porpoise.  "You 
were  miles  away  from  the  fellows.  So  this  is  your  short 
cut,  indeed?  If  we  had  remained  on  the  beaten  road, 
we  would  have  some  chance  of  being  seen  and  of  being 
waited  for!  That  is,  if  the  other  passengers  didn't 
object." 

"And  if  we  hadn't  done  any  overtime,  but  gathered  our 
kit  together  like  gentlemen  who  had  a  proper  respect  for 
their  stomachs,  we  would  now  be  on  our  way  to  our 
boarding-house  with  the  prospect  of  as  fine  a  supper " 

The  word  "supper"  brought  forth  a  storm  of  yells,  cat- 
calls, and  groans.  The  members  of  the  "Archaeological 
Society  of  America"  were  young,  good-natured  and  lively, 
at  least  the  party  sent  on  the  Irish  expedition  could  be  so 
described — and  outside  of  the  leader,  who  felt  the  respon- 


NED  THE  INNOCENT  89 

sibility  of  his  position  and  was  anxious  to  turn  over  an 
adequate  amount  of  material  for  a  month's  research,  there 
was  not  one  who  did  not  hail  each  adventure  out  of  the 
beaten  track  with  equanimity,  if  not  positive  joy. 

"And  why  didn't  you  two  fellows  chase  the  stage?" 
said  I,  to  whom  the  prospect  of  bed  and  supper  would 
have  been  very  welcome. 

"You  may  say  chase,"  said  McCormick,  "when  you  left 
us  your  heavy  theodolite  to  carry.  I  wish  I  had  left  it 
where  it  was,  and  executed  a  fandango  in  sight  of  the 
passengers.  They  would  surely  have  waited,  for  they 
say  the  Irish  are  fond  of  dancing." 

"Is  there  anything  in  the  lunch-bags?"  said  Woods, 
faintly.  "I'm  starving.  This  atmosphere  gives  one  a 
tremendous  appetite." 

"Not  a  crumb,"  said  Foster.  "I've  been  through  them 
hours  ago." 

"Just  think  of  the  supper  pretty  Peggy  is  dishing  up 
for  us  now  at  the  'Kilbrickan  Arms.'  Mealy  potatoes 
(steaming  hot),  boiled  salmon,  eggs  and  bacon,  rice 
pudding,  hot  scones,  and  tea,"  said  Kane. 

"Don't  mention  it,  or  I'll  blow  your  head  off." 

"Can't  you  imagine  her  going  to  the  window  just  to 
get  a  glimpse  of  the  '  American  boys '  getting  off  the 
coach?"  A  clod  of  earth  flung  in  his  direction  silenced 
the  tormentor  for  a  moment.  "Couldn't  we  walk  to  Kil- 
brickan?" said  Kane,  after  a  pause.  A  perfect  storm  of 
yells  was  his  answer. 

"Seven  Irish  miles  in  the  dark — equivalent  to  fourteen 
English — with  the  privilege  of  tumbling  into  a  ditch,  or 
falling  into  the  hands  of  the  police,  to  be  jailed  for  an 
indefinite  period  as  suspicious  characters  endangering  the 


90  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

loyalty  of  Her  Majesty's  subjects.  No,  the  only  thing 
we  can  do  is  to  make  the  best  of  our  misfortune,  hunt  up 
some  cottager  and  get  him  to  give  us  a  supper  of  any 
kind  and  a  night's  lodging." 

"There  are  no  cottages  around  here.  There  are  two 
rich  residences  somewhere  near,  but  they  are  shut  up 
and  the  people  have  gone  away.  If  Ned  were  only 
around,  he  would  guide  us  somewhere." 

"If  Ned  were  only  around,  this  would  never  have  hap- 
pened. His  three  hats  would  have  stood  between  that 
coach  and  the  setting  sun  and  detained  it  there  till  we  were 
on  hand.  If  Ned  were  only  around  we  would  be  eating 
supper  now  under  the  eye  of  pretty  Peggy."  And  Kane 
sighed,  for  he  was  quite  an  admirer  of  the  lively  waitress 
at  the  "Kilbrickan  Arms." 

"Where  is  Ned,  anyway?    I  never  saw  him  all  day." 

"Boys,"  said  I,  "there  may  be  a  searching  party  sent 
after  us.  In  the  meantime  let  us  make  ourselves  as  com- 
fortable as  possible.  If  we  had  our  blankets  we  could 
sleep  here.  How  sweet  this  arbutus  smells  !w 

"Bosh!"  said  Woods,  irreverently,  "a  searching  party 
after  four  able-bodied  men!  No,  I  propose  to  explore 
and  hunt  up  something  to  eat.  Ha !  What's  that  ?" 

A  heavy  body  was  crushing  the  bushes  behind  us.  We 
all  sprang  to  our  feet.  It  was  now  as  dark  as  pitch  and 
no  straining  of  the  eyeballs  could  give  us  the  faintest 
idea  of  our  neighbor.  We  stood,  a  solid  square,  back  to 
back,  with  only  our  hands  for  our  weapons,  for — for  rea- 
sons best  known  to  our  superiors — we  were  cautioned  to 
carry  no  firearms  in  going  among  the  people  in  prosecu- 
tion of  our  studies.  It  was  a  critical  moment,  and  a 
decidedly  uncomfortable  one. 


NED  THE  INNOCENT  91 

"Hit  it  with  the  theodolite/'  said  Kane,  securing  the 
instrument  and  standing  it  in  front  of  him. 

Just  then  a  shuffling  movement,  in  accompaniment  to  a 
peculiarly  tuneless  whistle,  was  heard  on  the  path 
above  us. 

"It's  Ned!"  said  Woods,  joyfully.  "Td  know  that 
whistle  anywhere  without  the  corroboration  of  his  three 
hats.  Ned,  oh,  Ned!" 

The  moon  had  just  appeared  from  behind  a  cloud,  and 
cast  her  welcome  beams  on  a  figure,  the  most  uncouth 
possible.  A  tall,  ungainly  young  man,  dressed  in  nonde- 
script garments  that  were  either  too  large  or  too  small 
for  him,  was  rapidly  making  his  way  to  us,  with  an  ease 
and  agility  that  showed  his  acquaintance  with  the  moun- 
tains of  his  country  was  not  of  recent  date.  His  clothing 
must  have  been  contributed  by  well-wishers  of  different 
builds,  for  his  trousers  were  nearer  the  middle  of  his  calf 
than  his  instep,  and  his  coat,  large  enough  for  two  persons 
of  his  size,  hit  him  on  the  heels  at  every  step.  To  crown 
all,  he  wore  over  this  costume  three  hats,  one  resting  on 
the  other,  and  when  we  add  that  these  were  distinctly 
American,  we  leave  the  reader  to  infer  that  he  was  a 
favorite  with  our  party.  Ned  was  our  self-constituted 
guide,  and  almost  inseparable  companion  during  our 
sojourn  in  the  "Emerald  Isle."  He  carried  our  mail,  ran 
errands,  "lifted"  the  chains,  and  kept  us  out  of  harm 
generally.  He  knew  where  the  best  spring  wells  were, 
the  oldest  ruins  and  the  most  lonesome  "forts."  He  was 
what  his  countrymen  called  a  "natural"  or  an  "innocent." 
Too  harmless  to  be  locked  up,  too  witless  to  be  considered 
responsible,  he  was  free  to  go  the  length  and  breadth  of 
the  land. 


92  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

Ned  removed  his  three  hats  and  cooled  his  brow.  We 
found,  after  Woods  had  taken  him  in  hand,  that  every 
available  place  for  supper  and  a  bed  was  at  least  three  or 
four  miles  away. 

"That  means  eight,"  groaned  Kane. 

"What  about  that  big  house  we  saw  this  morning?" 

"De  Castle?"  inquired  Ned,  who  spoke  with  the  accent 
and  manner  of  a  child;  "dey  folks  are  all  gone  to  Lon- 
don." 

"What  about  the  little  house  we  saw  on  the  mountain 
side?" 

"Dat's  Molly  Dowd,  de  cup-tosser.    She'd  shoot  ye." 

Groans  from  everybody. 

"Where  are  you  going  to  stay  to-night,  Ned?"  I  asked. 

"I'm  goin'  to  stay  by  me  gran'mudder." 

"Oh,  you're  lucky  you  have  a  grandmother.  Where  is 
her  house?" 

"In  de  graveyard  beyant." 

"She  must  live  near  that  old  cemetery,"  I  said  to  the 
others. 

"Look  here,"  said  Woods,  "take  us  to  your  grand- 
mother, Ned,  and  ask  her  to  give  us  some  supper.  Any- 
thing will  do — anything  to  fill  this  aching  void.  We'll 
pay  her.  Will  you  take  us?" 

"Yes,"  said  Ned,  cheerfully;  "come  on." 

"Will  your  grandmother  mind,  Ned?" 

"No,"  said  Ned;  "she  won't  mind." 

"Will  she  give  us  some  supper?" 

"No ;  she's  asleep.    I'll  get  some  of  Stack's  'tatoes." 

"Potatoes  are  good.    Anything  with  them?" 

"I'll  milk  O'Brien's  cow." 

"Ned's  grandmother  is  evidently  sick.     Never  mind, 


NED  THE  INNOCENT  93 

she  won't  put  us  out.  We'll  give  her  no  trouble.  We'll 
sleep  anywhere.  Potatoes  and  milk  sound  good.  Is  it 
far,  Ned?" 

"No,  just  a  little  ways  beyant." 

The  moon,  which  was  hidden  behind  a  cloud,  now 
peeped  coyly  forth  and  bathed  everything  in  the  softest 
silver.  We  had  forgotten  the  heavy  body  that  had 
frightened  us  a  few  minutes  previous.  It  proved  to  be  a 
cow.  We  shouldered  our  instruments,  and,  with  the  pros- 
pect of  shelter  and  something  to  eat,  felt  our  courage  rise. 

The  little  way  "beyant"  proved  to  be  longer  than  we 
imagined,  over  the  other  side  of  the  mountain,  with  a 
rough  and  uncertain  road.  If  we  had  been  in  a  mood  to 
enjoy  the  scenery,  there  was  enough  of  it  to  gladden  the 
most  romantic.  We  were  too  tired  to  do  more  than  glance 
at  a  strip  of  liquid  light  that  lay  beneath  us  as  we  de- 
scended the  mountain.  It  was  the  Atlantic  Ocean.  It 
bordered  a  lonely  road,  then  was  shut  off  by  a  turn  which 
revealed  to  us  an  ancient  castle,  partly  in  ruins. 

Everything  was  very  still  and  desolate.  A  stone  wall 
many  feet  thick  seemed  to  rise  out  of  space.  There  were 
some  yew  and  cypress  trees  bending  over  it,  gnarled  and 
twisted  by  the  hand  of  time.  A  few  crosses,  dilapidated 
and  out  of  shape,  lop-sided  and  tottering,  loomed  up  where 
the  wall  had  crumbled  away. 

A  more  desolate  and  lonely  spot  would  be  hard  to 
imagine.  To  add  to  this  ghostliness,  the  moon  suddenly 
disappeared,  and  so  did  Ned,  for  when  she  condescended 
to  beam  upon  us  again,  he  was  not  to  be  seen.  We  looked 
at  one  another  in  astonishment.  This  was  the  last  straw. 

"Where  has  Ned  gone?"  said  Woods,  in  a  loud  tone, 
which  reminded  me  of  my  youthful  efforts  to  pass  a 
cemetery  in  all  the  bravery  of  a  whistler. 


94  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Here  I  am,"  said  a  voice  behind  us.  We  could  not 
explain  why  we  jumped,  and  we  felt  like  jumping  again 
when  we  discovered  Ned  straddled  on  a  projecting  monu- 
ment, holding  on  to  an  angel  with  a  trumpet. 

"Everyting  is  ready,"  he  said.  "Come  troo  de  hole  in 
de  wall." 

"  So  this  is  where  his  grandmother  lives  ?"  I  said.  "  She 
must  have  a  cabin  inside  these  grounds." 

"Where  is  your  grandmother's  place,  Ned?"  I  con- 
tinued, addressing  our  guide. 

"Dere,"  answered  Ned,  pointing  to  a  grassy  mound  at 
his  feet. 

In  a  few  minutes  we  crawled  through  and  found  our- 
selves in  an  ancient  city  of  the  dead. 

"Then  your  grandmother  is " 

"Asleep,"  said  Ned,  in  a  low  tone.    "Don't  wake  her." 

We  looked  at  each  other  in  the  uncertain  light. 

"And  where  do  you  sleep?" 

"Right  here,"  he  replied,  cheerfully,  disappearing  into 
a  large  tomb  that  also  bore  the  marks  of  age.  It  was 
high — almost  high  enough  for  a  man  to  stand  upright. 
Ned's  entrance  was  on  the  side  farthest  from  the  wall.  A 
loose  slab  served  as  a  door. 

The  old  tomb  was  formed  of  heavy  slabs  of  granite, 
with  the  roof  of  a  larger  slab,  and  from  a  casual  view 
was  in  much  the  same  condition  as  the  surrounding  monu- 
ments, which  were  nearly  ready  to  fall.  Further  investi- 
gation showed  us  we  were  mistaken,  for  it  was  sound 
enough,  being  embedded  deep  in  the  ground  and  bearing 
the  appearance  of  a  vault. 

"Come  in  now,"  said  Ned,  with  an  inviting  smile.  "I 
have  a  cangle"  (candle),  "an'  it's  all  ready." 


NED  THE  INNOCENT  95 

As  he  spoke  he  pushed  his  head  out  of  this  extraordi- 
nary domicile  and  grinned  a  welcome.  He  still  wore  the 
three  hats,  which  must  have  inconvenienced  him  very 
much,  but  did  not  distract  from  the  oddity  of  the  scene. 

"This  is  a  pretty  how-do-you-do,"  said  McCormick, 
"miles  away  from  the  living,  I  mean — in  an  old  grave- 
yard at  twelve  o'clock  at  night — with  as  crazy  a  loon  as 
it  has  ever  been  my  fate  to  meet."  He  jerked  his  sen- 
tences off  with  a  melancholy  born  only  of  hunger  and 
fatigue. 

"Things  could  be  worse,"  I  rejoined.  "I  am  too  tired 
to  move  a  step  farther.  If  an  old  burying-ground  is  good 
enough  for  Ned  it's  good  enough  for  me.  Here  goes !" 

In  a  moment  the  whole  party  was  inside  the  tomb  and 
enjoying  a  shelter  which  the  rising  wind  was  rendering 
very  desirable.  We  soon  were  quite  busy  filling  in  the 
chinks  with  bits  of  moss  and  hay  while  Ned  proceeded 
to  do  the  hospitable.  The  slab  which  served  as  a  door  was 
ajar.  It  seemed  to  be  on  a  pivot,  and  could  swing  around 
— after  a  good  deal  of  creaking — to  its  place ;  but  we  pre- 
ferred to  let  it  remain  as  it  was,  while  we  were  taking  in 
the  strange  solemnity  of  our  surroundings. 

The  moon,  as  if  in  reparation  for  the  long  game  of 
hide-and-seek  with  which  she  had  beguiled  our  journey, 
now  started  to  do  things  up  in  fine  shape,  and  painted 
everything  about  us  in  soft,  beautiful  colors.  The  ceme- 
tery was  on  a  hill  and  contained  some  interesting  me- 
morials of  Irish  chiefs  and  warriors  of  long  ago.  I 
could  not  see  the  dates  of  the  inscriptions  from  my  hiding- 
place,  but  it  was  not  necessary.  A  student  of  antiquity 
could  not  be  deceived.  I  judged  that  few  interments  of 

recent  date  had  been  made  there.     The  grave  of  Ned's 
7 


96  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

grandmother,  which  was  about  the  most  recent,  was  cov- 
ered with  moss  and  brambles.  The  paths  were  over- 
grown with  every  trailing  plant  describable  and  showed 
clearly  that  the  old  families  who  had  interred  their  dead 
there  had  either  died  out  or  emigrated. 

"Whose  tomb  is  this,  Ned?"  I  asked. 

"Old  'Cormick.    He  was  a  great  fighter,  so  he  was." 

''Look  here,  Ned,"  interrupted  Woods,  "you  promised 
us  some  supper.  Where  is  it?" 

"Right  here,"  said  Ned,  going  outside  and  producing 
a  bag  of  potatoes. 

"Oh,  but  those  are  raw." 

"I'll  boil  dem  now,"  said  Ned,  with  alacrity;  "shut  de 
door  an'  keep  out  de  win'." 

"Where  will  you  boil  them?" 

"Outside,  of  coorse ;  shut  de  door." 

"And  stay  in  the  dark?"  said  Foster.  "Not  much.  I 
feel  too  much  like  a  rat  as  it  is." 

"Light  de  cangle,  light  de  cangle,"  said  Ned,  and  suit- 
ing the  action  to  the  word,  he  produced  from  a  corner  a 
tallow  candle,  which  he  lit,  and  then  procured  a  skull,  into 
whose  fleshless  eye-socket  he  stuck  it.  From  the  drippings 
scattered  around  it  was  evident  this  was  not  in  use  for 
the  first  time. 

"So  that's  the  great  fighter's  skull,  I  suppose,"  said 
Woods.  "Well,  '  give  me  liberty  or  give  me  death !'  " 

"Now,  I  call  this  a  jolly  outing,  if  we  only  had  some 
supper,"  said  Kane,  with  a  laugh. 

Ned  was  now  on  the  road,  standing  over  a  fire  made 
from  scraps  of  wood — pieces  of  coffins  for  all  we  knew — 
which  he  had  collected.  He  had  unearthed  a  pot  from  a 
crevice  and,  filling  it  with  water  from  an  adjacent  spring, 


NED  THE  INNOCENT  97 

crammed  it  full  of  potatoes.  He  was  now  watching  them 
boil. 

"Are  they  almost  done,  Ned?"  said  Kane. 

"Pretty  near,"  answered,  Ned.     "Dey're  boilin'  mad." 

"Do  you  really  intend  to  eat  those  potatoes?"  said  Fos- 
ter, in  disgust. 

"Why  not?  If  you  were  as  hungry  as  we  are,  you'd 
eat  them  too." 

"  But  out  of  a  cemetery  ?" 

"Those  didn't  grow  here.    He  got  them  outside." 

"Yes,  but  the  water.    It  flows  in  here." 

"He  got  the  water  from  the  very  fountain  of  the  spring 
before  it  enters  here.  Oh!  you're  very  particular." 

"I'm  goin'  for  some  milk,"  said  Ned.  "Some  of  ye 
watch  de  'tatoes." 

Nobody  inquired  where  he  was  going  to  get  the  milk, 
but  the  fragrance  of  the  potatoes  was  so  potent — I  never 
knew  that  potatoes  had  a  fragrance  before — that  we  were 
all  willing  to  attend  to  them.  We  drew  in  long  breaths. 
Foster,  the  fastidious,  jabbed  his  penknife  into  a  large 
mealy  one  on  the  top. 

"They  are  nearly  done,"  he  said,  proceeding  to  peel  it. 
Kane  produced  an  old  newspaper  and  was  following  suit, 
when  Ned  ran  to  us  breathless  and  excited.  "De  polis !" 
he  whispered;  "de  polis!" 

The  ring  of  hoofs  was  heard  in  the  distance. 

"The  Royal  Irish  Constabulary,"  I  muttered. 

"What  of  it?"  said  Woods,  coolly.  "Let  us  place  our- 
selves under  their  protection,  and  get  out  of  this  hole." 

"That  shows  all  you  know  of  the  Royal  Irish  Constabu- 
lary," I  replied. 

"It  shows  all  you  know  of  it." 


98  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

4 

"We  are  liable  to  be  arrested  on  suspicion  and  jailed 
for  months.  By  the  time  our  consul  has  interested  him- 
self and  proved  us  right,  our  best  friends  wouldn't  know 
us.  It's  my  fault,"  I  added  quickly,  for  time  was  precious. 
"I  should  have  gone  and  made  things  square  with  some 
well-known  Irish  magistrate.  I'll  do  it  to-morrow,  but 
I'll  not  fall  into  the  hands  of  these  worthies  if  I  can 
help  it." 

"What  are  we  liable  to  be  suspected  of?"  said  Kane. 

"Of  treason  to  her  most  gracious  Majesty."  He 
whistled  softly. 

"Some  bluecoat  is  looking  for  promotion,"  he  said. 
"Sawbones" — my  pet  name — "i^s  right,  boys,"  he  added. 
"Keep  under  cover.  We  are  not  foolish  enough  to  put 
ourselves  under  the  protection  of  men  who  could  drive  us 
into  town  like  a  flock  of  sheep  in  our  present  state  of 
fatigue,  while  they  cantered  behind  on  their  blooded 
horses.  Just  fancy  pretty  Peggy  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow at  Kilbrickan  and  putting  us  down  for  a  lot  of 
villains  simply  because  the  police  think  so !" 

"Maybe  they're  going  to  an  eviction,  or  a  still-hunt," 
said  McCormick. 

"Maybe  they  are,"  I  replied,  "but  let's  run  no  risks. 
Get  under  cover,  quick,  till  they  pass.  Ned,  don't  tell 
them  we  are  here." 

"No,"  said  Ned. 

We  crawled  back  into  the  tomb  and  had  barely  settled 
ourselves  when  the  police,,  seven  in  number,  pulled  up. 

"Halloa!  What's  this  fire  for?"  said  one,  who  ap- 
peared to  be  the  leader. 

"I'm  boilin'  me  supper,"  said  Ned,  solemnly. 

"That's  too  thin,  my  man.  This  is  a  signal  fire.  Where 
are  the  American  chaps  ?" 


NED  THE  INNOCENT  99 

"What  'Merican  chaps?" 

"Come,  come!  You  know  what  I  mean — the  chaps 
who  have  been  scampering  over  the  mountains  the  last  ten 
days.  I  had  my  suspicion,  especially  when  they  didn't 
turn  up  at  the  hotel  for  supper.  Where  are  they  ?" 

"Who  d'ye  mane?" 

"The  American  chaps." 

"Which  'dem?" 

"Now,  look  here,  Ned,"  roared  the  leader,  who  seemed 
to  have  imbibed  a  little  of  the  mountain  dew  on  his  way 
up,  "you  ain't  as  innocent  as  you  look." 

"Now  stop  shoutin',"  said  Ned;  "you'll  wake  up  me 
gran'mudder." 

This  brought  a  sally  of  laughter  from  the  other  men. 

"I  bet  you  a  shillin',"  said  the  first  man,  "that  those 
Americans  are  in  the  graveyard.  They  came  for  the  pur- 
pose of  raising  an  insurrection.  Two  of  you  fellows  go 
and  search.  Flannigan  and  Doolan,  you  go." 

"Go  yourself,"  said  one  of  the  men  addressed.  "I'll 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  dead." 

"You're  afraid?" 

"Maybe  you're  afraid !  as  for  me,  I  attend  to  the  living,'1 

"I'll  report  you." 

"Report  away.    You're  not  sergeant  yet." 

"Well,"  said  the  first  man,  angry  at  being  balked,  "I 
bet  that  fool  knows  more  than  he  lets  on !  Here,  you, 
Ned,  come  along.  Maybe  you'll  tell  a  different  story  at 
Kilbrickan.  Jump  up  behind  me." 

"I'm  comin',"  said  Ned.     "Will  Peggy  see  us?" 

"Will  Peggy  see  us?"  repeated  the  leader.    "Why?" 

"Bekase  she  said  ye  wor  lookin'  for  a  sthripe,  a**' 
she'd  like  to  give  ye  one  wid  de  broom." 


100  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

This  allusion  to  the  man's  ambition  for  promotion  and 
to  pretty  Peggy,  who  failed  to  respond  to  his  admiration, 
set  the  men  to  laughing  again. 

"You'll  come  on  anyway,"  said  the  man,  savagely.  "A 
few  days  in  the  lockup  will  settle  your  d — d  impudence." 

"Arrah !  do  you  want  to  make  us  the  laughing-stock 
of  the  town,"  said  another  policeman,  "arresting  a  poor 
innocent  ?" 

"Innocent,  indeed,"  said  the  other.  "Jump  up,  you 
Ned." 

Ned  was  not  idle.  He  poured  the  potatoes  from  the 
pot  into  the  bag  which  first  held  them,  and  sprang  with 
the  agility  of  a  monkey  behind  the  leader. 

The  boiling  water  ran  down  the  horse's  back  in  streams, 
and  set  him  wildly  capering.  The  rider  held  on  by  tooth 
and  nail,  while  Ned  stuck  to  him  like  a  leech,  behind. 

"What  have  you  there,  you  devil?"  roared  the  sur- 
prised officer,  while  his  subordinates  held  their  sides. 

"Only  me  supper,"  said  Ned.  "Arrah,  d'ye  think 
I  was  goin'  to  leave  it  behind  ?" 

"Get  down,  you  vagabond,  get  down!" 

"I  can't,"  roared  Ned;  "de  horse  won't  let  me." 

The  party  disappeared  down  the  road  in  a  tearing 
hurry,  the  horse  that  carried  Ned  and  his  bag  of  potatoes 
being  much  in  advance  of  the  others.  It  was  now  our 
turn  to  laugh,  and  we  did  heartily,  in  spite  of  our  mis- 
fortune. 

"I  was  afraid  I'd  burst,"  said  Kane,  who  had  stuffed 
his  handkerchief  into  his  mouth  and  was  rolling  on  the 
ground. 

"Confound  the  '  double  diligence  '  of  the  Irish  police!" 
said  McCormick.  "We've  lost  our  supper  through 
them." 


NED  THE  INNOCENT  101 

"But  wasn't  Ned  game?"  asked  Foster,  admiringly. 

"I  think,  with  the  policemen,  he  isn't  half  as  foolish 
as  he  looks.  But  are  we  going  to  stay  in  this  place  all 
night?" 

"Not  I,"  said  Woods.  "It  was  all  right  while  Ned 
was  here." 

"I  don't  propose  to  starve  in  a  country  so  famous  for 
its  hospitality.  Let's  chase  around  and  find  a  cabin  some- 
where," said  Kane. 

"And  carry  our  kit  with  us?" 

"No,  no!  Leave  it  here  with  Sawbones.  He's  used 
to  skeletons." 

"Yes,  I'll  stay,"  said  I.  "As  Kane  says,  I'm  used  to 
skeletons.  Don't  be  long.  Ned  will  return,  probably,  and 
I'd  like  to  leave  here  together.  In  the  meantime  I'm  not 
afraid  of  a  few  bodies  merely  because  the  breath  has  left 
them." 

"And  such  a  long  time  since  that  sad  occurrence,"  said 
McCormick,  consolingly.  "Bones,  lad,  nothing  but 
bones.  Don't  be  lonesome ;  good-by." 

As  the  leader  of  the  little  party,  and  in  recognition  of 
my  earlier  medical  training,  I  was  supposed  to  be  pos- 
sessed of  the  requisite  discretion  to  keep  it  out  of  trouble, 
and  I  had  succeeded  so  far.  Though  we  lived  in  all 
familiarity,  and  I  studiously  ignored,  in  small  matters, 
the  slightest  semblance  of  authority,  yet  when  I  deemed 
a  certain  course  advisable,  "the  boys"  never  argued  the 
matter.  I  knew  I  could  depend  upon  them  now. 

I  watched  them  disappear  among  the  graves  over  the 
hill,  and  then  I  felt  sleepy.  I  sat  inside  the  tomb  with 
the  door  open,  and  watched  the  moonbeam  effect  on  the 
old  monuments.  I  was  painfully  conscious  all  the  time 


102       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

of  the  old  warrior's  skull  that  had  served  us  for  a  candle- 
stick, though  I  had  put  it  away  in  the  farthest  corner. 
I  felt  silly,  and  ashamed  of  my  silliness,  and  thought  I 
would  venture  forth  among  the  old  monuments  and  pass 
the  time  away,  taking  notes  of  dates  and  styles. 

One  in  particular  had  struck  me  earlier  in  the  evening 
as  worthy  of  attention.  It  was  a  pretentious  affair,  built 
into  the  side  of  the  hill,  and  bore  a  coat  of  arms,  an  effigy 
of  a  female  and  some  curiously  carved  utensils  or 
weapons.  It  was  probably  the  entrance  to  a  vault,  for  the 
doors  were  of  iron  and  heavily  clinched  and  barred.  The 
figure  in  strong  relief  was  that  of  a  reclining  woman. 

Old  as  the  monument  appeared  to  be,  with  the  once 
bold  lines  worn  smooth  by  time,  my  eyes  seemed  riveted 
to  it  by  some  curious  fascination,  and  my  imagination, 
never  too  strong,  began  to  weave  a  story  about  the  origi- 
nal of  the  image,  long  ago  dust.  Again  and  again  I 
turned  my  eyes  away  to  decipher  odd  words,  mostly  in 
Gaelic,  on  the  other  stones,  but  I  invariably  found  myself 
interested  in  the  reclining  woman  with  the  nose,  and  the 
toes  of  the  tiny  feet,  blunted  by  the  wear  and  tear  of  time 
and  the  elements. 

Under  the  beams  of  the  witching  moon  and  steady 
scrutiny,  the  old  monument  softened  into  life,  and  I  could 
trace  each  feature  of  the  woman,  or  girl,  as  if  she  were 
still  in  the  flesh.  She  had  been  young — two  hundred 
years  ago,  perhaps,  not  less — and  beautiful.  Her  gar- 
ments were  fashioned  in  the  style  distinguishing  that 
period,  her  hair  plentiful  and  worn  a  la  pompadour,  her 
neck  encircled  by  a  ribbon,  and  a  little  slipper  peeped  out 
from  the  heavy  silken  skirt  with  its  numberless  folds  and 
gathers. 


NED  THE  INNOCENT  103 

Evidently  she  had  been  a  belle  and  much  mourned, 
probably  the  fair  daughter  of  an  Irish  chieftain,  who  had 
been  driven  by  Cromwell  to  "hell  or  Connaught." 

I  glanced  at  the  letters  beneath,  where  the  salt,  carried 
by  the  sea-breeze,  had  not  eaten  in  too  far,  and  picked  out 

the  words,  "Lady  Molly  O' "  and  there  was  a  faint  i, 

and  an  indistinct  y.  Yes,  this  old  vault  contained  the 
ashes  of  one  of  the  oldest  families.  Ah,  there  was  "18 
years,"  besides  the  date,  "1592." 

It  was  quite  a  find,  and  I  determined  to  hunt  it  up. 
Was  the  old  family  quite  extinct,  fcr  had  they  sunk  to  the 
level  of  peasants,  and  "feeshed"  in  the  bay  or  washed 
dishes  in  the  New  York  kitchens  for  rich  parvenus? 
A  strange  feeling  of  pity  stole  over  me.  The  girl  was 
no  longer  a  monument,  she  was  real.  The  background 
faded  away,  and  the  stone  couch  with  its  lovely  occu- 
pant was  again  a  dream  of  beauty,  suddenly  chilled  in 
death.  I  could  imagine  the  sobbing  of  her  parents,  the 
louder  lamentations  of  the  henchmen,  and  the  wild  cry 
of  the  keeners,  borne  by  the  breeze. 

I  shook  myself.  There  was  certainly  somebody  sob- 
bing, and  the  dipping  of  oars  as  an  accompaniment. 
Yes,  she  must  have  been  carried  from  the  mainland,  for 
interment,  to  this  ancient  cemetery,  which  was,  as  I 
reflected,  a  peninsula  only  at  low  tide,  being  at  high  tide 
an  island. 

Was  I  dreaming?  An  empty  stomach  was  a  good 
foundation  for  hallucinations.  There  was  no  use  doubt- 
ing the  real,  and  that  sobbing  was  real.  The  rowing 
stopped,  and  the  boat  seemed  to  be  but  a  few  feet  from 
the  wall.  "Ochone,  that  we  must  lose  ye!  Ye'll  lave 
us  now,  never  to  return!  God  help  us,  thinkin'  o'  ye 
when  th'  waves  rise  an'  th'  storms  rage !" 


104       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

I  heard  a  consoling  whisper,  and  somebody  sprang 
over  the  wall.  Was  it  the  police  returning  from  their 
search?  I  shrank  into  my  hiding-place,  while  I  watched 
through  a  crevice  to  see  whom  this  new  intruder  might 
be.  I  heard  the  rustling  of  his  footsteps  among  the 
brambles  and  dried  grasses,  and  then  they  sounded  quite 
close.  Was  it  some  one  in  search  of  me  ?  Was  it  a  friend 
with  tidings  of  supper  and  a  bed,  or  a  policeman?  Was 
it  wiser  to  remain  silent,  or  to  throw  myself  on  his 
mercy?  I  hesitated.  The  steps  had  passed  on.  Any- 
thing was  better  than  this  misery.  If  the  police  failed 
us,  it  would  only  be  for  a  few  hours,  I  reflected,  and 
they  would  surely  feed  us  first. 

I  rose  to  follow  the  footsteps,  but  cast  a  last  glance 
at  the  interesting  monument. 

I  rubbed  my  eyes  with  palsied  hands.  Was  it  possible 
that — yes,  it  was.  The  young  woman  had  risen  from 
the  stone  couch  on  which  she  had  reclined  so  many 
years,  and  endured  so  tranquilly  the  summer's  heat  and 
winter's  blasts,  and  was  standing  at  the  door  of  the 
vault  encircled  by  the  arm  of  a  young  man. 

The  events  of  the  day  had  left  me  as  unnerved  as  a 
woman.  I  would  have  cried  aloud  had  not  my  vocal 
chords  been  paralyzed  by  astonishment.  Yes,  this  was 
no  mistake.  There  was  the  maiden  so  much  mourned, 
the  same  pompadour,  the  same  dress,  with  the  slipper 
peeping  out,  and  even  the  circlet  of  ribbon  at  the  fair, 
round  throat.  How  lovely  she  looked,  and  how  sad!  I 
noticed  for  the  first  time  that  a  cloak  had  fallen  at  her 
feet.  I  looked  at  the  companion  critically;  he  was  just 
an  ordinary  good-looking  fellow  in  seafaring  dress,  a 
man  of  the  present  period,  sad  also,  but  sensible  and 
business-like. 


NED  THE  INNOCENT  105 

"Don't  cry,  Molly,"  he  said,  patting  her  head;  "I'll  be 
all  right.  I  was  a  little  premature;  the  people  have 
been  so  down-trodden  that  they  don't  appreciate  our 
efforts.  By  and  by,  my  girl,  by  and  by,  we'll  show 
our  tyrants  what  we  are  made  of.  If  I  can  only  get 
away  in  a  fishing  smack,  with  our  old  nurse,  Katie,  and 
then  on  board  the  American  steamer,  which  is  outside, 
I  shall  be  all  right.  I'll  write  when  I  land,  too,  you 
know  where,  and  in  the  usual  name." 

Was  he  a  lover  ?  He  was  too  cold,  I  thought.  She  was 
the  demonstrative  one,  patting  his  cheek  and  crying  over 
him.  I  hated  to  be  a  spectator  of  the  meeting,  and  I 
hardly  knew  whether  to  show  myself  and  give  them 
what  we  Americans  call  a  scare,  or  lie  low  and  await  my 
chance.  But  while  I  was  thinking,  the  young  man  made 
a  hurried  departure,  after  kissing  the  girl  hastily,  and 
telling  her  he  would  write.  The  whole  thing  happened 
in  a  trice,  leaving  me  with  senses  scattered  and  be- 
wildered. 

Who  was  she,  and  whence  had  she  come?  She  an- 
swered me  unconsciously  by  opening  the  low  door  of 
the  vault  and  disappearing.  I  glanced  at  her  counterpart 
on  the  old  monument.  It  was  as  before.  Then  this 
young  woman  must  be  a  relative,  a  descendant  of  this 
dead  and  gone  beauty;  but  why  did  she  personate  her 
and  for  what  purpose? 

I  looked  at  the  monument  again  and  saw  that  it  was 
on  a  hill,  that  the  vault  was  dug  into  the  hill,  and  that 
this  hill  ran  the  whole  length  of  the  graveyard.  Then 
it  dawned  on  me — what  was  afterward  proven — that 
there  was  a  subterranean  passage  under  the  hill,  leading 
to  the  ancient  family  seat.  After  that,  the  whole  pro- 
ceeding was  natural  enough. 


10G       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

Natural  or  supernatural,  I  thought,  this  is  no  place 
for  me.  I'll  follow  the  coast  and  find  a  village.  Those 
people  who  were  crying  must  live  somewhere. 

On  arriving  at  that  conclusion,  I  immediately  jumped 
over  the  wall,  and  ran  into  the  arms  of  Woods  and  Kane. 

"Where  off?"  said  the  former,  "where  off?  We're 
going  back  among  the  dead  to  remain  till  morning. 
Dead  and  gone  coasters  and  buccaneers  are  better  than 
British  policemen." 

"Not  for  me,"  I  rejoined.  "I've  had  enough  of  the 
dead.  Come  along  the  coast.  I  have  reason  to  know  that 
we  are  within  a  stone's  throw  of  a  hamlet  where  some 
shelter  can  be  obtained." 

"And  a  supper,"  shouted  Kane.  "Oh,  mamma!  but 
I'm  hungry." 

The  little  arm  of  the  sea  that  separated  the  fishing 
village  from  the  mainland  had  almost  disappeared,  the 
tide  being  in  the  ebb,  and  we  traversed  a  pebbly,  sandy 
path  that  led  us  to  a  row  of  low  stone  cabins,  before 
which  fishing  nets  were  spread  to  dry.  It  was  a  long 
walk,  but  the  sea-breezes  were  sweet  and  invigorating 
and  when  we  arrived  at  the  first,  we  paused. 

"I'm  afraid  to  knock,"  said  Woods. 

"Everything  has  gone  against  us  this  night,  and  I'm 
now  as  superstitious  as  any  Galilee  fisherman ;  but  I'll 
knock,"  said  I;  "they  can't  do  more  than  refuse  to  admit 
us.  If  one  refuses  to  open,  I'll  go  to  every  door." 

"Here,"  said  Kane,  "pick  out  the  biggest  house;  the 
man  living  there  is  always  the  king  of  the  village.  He 
has  the  more  room  to  spare,  and  bosses  all  the  rest.  If 
he  thinks  we're  not  to  be  accommodated,  the  rest  will 
follow  suit,  but  why  should  he  think  we  are  not  to  be 


NED  THE  INNOCENT  107 

accommodated?  The  Irish  are  hospitable,  and  unless 
they  take  us  for  coast-guards  or  spies,  or  English  (they 
hate  the  English),  they  will  treat  us  well." 

"Well,  if  they  only  give  us  time,  we'll  prove  ourselves 
Americans,"  said  Woods,  singling  out  the  largest  house 
and  reaching  his  hand  out  to  knock. 

At  his  touch  the  door,  to  our  astonishment,  fell  in 
and  Woods  with  it,  and  we  heard  confused  sounds  of 
falling,  shouting  and  talking.  Not  knowing  what  to 
make  of  this,  or  whether  to  run  away  or  stand  our 
ground,  we  were  looking  at  one  another  in  our  amaze- 
ment, when  a  number  of  men  rushed  out  and  encircled  us. 

"Are  these  all  there  is  of  ye?"  said  a  fierce-looking 
fellow. 

"All  here,"  said  I.    "On  the  coast,  I  mean." 

"Come  in  quickly,"  said  the  man,  almost  in  the  same 
breath;  "we've  been  looking  for  ye  all  night." 

"Thank  Heaven!"  said  Kane,  much  relieved.  "Then 
you'll  give  us  some  shelter  and  a  bed  ?" 

The  man  looked  at  him  curiously,  but  pushed  us 
roughly  before  him.  The  moon  was  shining  brightly  on 
the  row  of  fishing  nets  and  the  curious  looking  cottages, 
from  each  of  which  a  spectator  in  dishabille  was  peeping 
curiously. 

"They  have  them;  tarn  them,"  said  one  huge,  be- 
whiskered  fisherman,  finishing  his  toilet. 

"The  miserable  Dublin  Jackeens,"  said  a  third. 

"Let's  give  it  dem  and  be  tammed  to  'em,"  added  an- 
other, heartily,  "but  fust  dhrive  a  hole  in  her  bottom,  to 
be  shure  they  get  enough  of  d'  say." 

All  this  was  Greek  to  us,  but  we  were  ushered  into  a 
large,  -warm  room  with  the  peat  fire  burning  in  the  centre. 


108       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

Woods  was  nursing  a  lump  on  his  head,  and  gazing 
bewildered  at  a  group  of  fishermen  with  unfriendly  faces 
among  whom  he  had  fallen,  for  the  door  was  merely 
"set  up"  without  either  hinges  or  post,  and  kept  in  place 
by  a  creel  or  two. 

"I  say,"  began  Woods,  "will  you  fellows  explain  what 
we  have  done  to  deserve " 

"Not  a  word,"  said  the  big  man,  who  appeared  to  be 
the  leader,  and  he  headed  us  off  to  another  room.  "Not 
another  word,  or  we'll  knock  the  daylights  out  of  ye. 
Take  off  yer  shoes." 

Expostulations  were  useless. 

"Ye'll  get  'em  again,  when  th'  coast  is  clear,"  said 
the  leader,  significantly,  "but  not  till  then.  We  don't 
want  yer  shoes,"  and  he  laughed  derisively. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  obey,  and  face  each  other 
in  our  stocking  feet. 

"I  say,"  said  the  irrepressible  Woods,  "we  want  our 
supper  and  some  kind  of  shelter.  This  will  do.  But 
we're  hungry  and  tired." 

There  was  a  whispered  consultation. 

"We  don't  want  ye  to  be  hungry,"  said  the  leader 
again.  "Beezey  is  now  boilin'  some  potatoes  an'  pre- 
parin'  th'  fish." 

This  was  good  news,  and  already  we  hailed  with  joy 
the  clatter  of  dishes. 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  us  when  supper 
is  over?"  said  Woods  again.  As  for  the  rest  of  us,  we 
were  too  bewildered  and  exhausted  to  care  to  speak. 

Of  what  use  was  speech?  It  would  not  alter  matters, 
and  we  were  glad  to  be  allowed  to  sit  on  the  low-backed 
benches  and  inhale  the  warmth  and  let  fate  do  its  worst. 


NED  THE  INNOCENT  109 

"Oh,  we  won't  hurt  ye,  me  brave  man-hunters,"  re- 
torted the  man.  "Dublin  Castle  might  be  lonesome  widout 
ye,  make  yer  minds  aisy.  When  th'  boy's  away  in  deep 
wathers  ye're  free  to  go  yer  way." 

I  pricked  up  my  ears.  "When  the  boy's  away,"  gave 
me  the  clue. 

The  brave  boy  must  have  been  the  young  man  who 
was  wishing  his  sweetheart  or  sister  farewell  in  the  old 
churchyard.  These  poor  fishermen  were  evidently  mis- 
taking us  for  detectives  or  secret-service  men. 

"Dublin  Castle?"  echoed  Woods.  "Will  you  kindly 
tell  us  what  Dublin  Castle  has  to  do  with  us  ?" 

On  the  top  of  the  table,  scoured  as  white  as.  sea  weed 
and  sand  could  make  it,  our  potatoes  were  steaming  from 
bursting  sides,  and  before  each  guest  lay  a  brave  herring 
and  a  noggin  of  milk.  We  didn't  need  the  second  invita- 
tion, but  seated  ourselves,  nor  waited  on  the  order  of 
doing  so. 

Pretty  girls,  whose  bare  feet  glistened  like  snow,  waited 
meekly  on  us,  superintended  by  an  elderly  woman  whose 
eyes  were  red  with  weeping.  She  looked  out  several 
times  over  the  ocean,  and  seemed  to  want  to  pierce  the 
starlit  waters. 

"There  isn't  a  sail  in  sight,"  she  muttered.  "He's  safe, 
the  darlin's  safe!" 

"Ay,"  answered  the  man  in  the  same  tone,  "the  fowlers 
are  caught  instead  of  the  starlin' !" 

"Where  did  ye  say  th'  rest  of  yer  friends  were?"  said 
the  leader  to  me,  suspiciously.  "Oh,  maybe,  maybe." 

At  this  moment  Ned's  voice  was  heard  calling  for 
admittance.  Foster  and  McCormick  were  trailing  behind, 
and  were  delighted  to  see  us. 


110       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Ned,"  said  our  host,  joyfully,  "where  did  ye  come 
from,  an'  how  did  ye  get  acquainted  with  those  fellows  ?" 

"Doze  ain't  fellers,"  said  Ned;  "doze  are  'Merican 
chaps,  so  dey  are." 

"Americans!"  said  our  host,  dropping  his  jaw;  "I 
thought  they  were  coast-guards." 

"No,"  said  Ned,  with  his  mouth  full  of  potatoes;  "de 
cos'  guards  is  down  by  station  hallowin'  like  de  debbel, 
an'  de  polis  is  wid  dem.  Dey  tried  to  chase  Masther 
Hugh  on  de  say,  but  he  got  off  in  de  big  ship,  so  he 
did." 

"Oh,  he's  off,"  said  the  elderly  woman,  joyfully,  "he's 
off !  Glory  be  to  God !" 

A  clang  of  horses  put  a  stern  cry  of  halt,  and  the  room 
was  full  of  police.  "The  tide  is  out,"  muttered  the  man, 
and  then  aloud,  "What  do  ye  want,  boys?" 

"I  want  just-  what  I  see,"  said  the  sergeant,  "the 
Americans.  We've  been  chasin'  them  all  night.  I  say, 
Ned,  why  didn't  you  tell  us  they  were  at  McGowanV 
and  how  did  them  fellows  cross  without  a  boat  ?" 

"Doze  ain't  fellers,"  said  Ned.  "Dey  is  'Mericans,  so 
dey  is." 

"And  what  do  you  want  us  for?"  I  asked.  "We  have 
done  no  wrong  and  are  here  on  neutral  business,  which 
we  can  prove." 

"Well,  you'll  have  a  chance  to  prove  it,"  said  the 
sergeant.  "You  come  with  us  now." 

"And  leave  our  supper,"  said  Woods,  "just  as  we  had 
commenced  to  eat?  Is  this  justice?" 

"An'  these  gentlemen  are  really  Americans,"  inter- 
polated our  host,  surprised.  "My,  my!  see  that,  an'  I 
thought  they  were  coast-guards." 


NED  THE  INNOCENT  111 

"We  are  really  Americans,  and  have  come  here  for 
no  harm."  This  from  me,  as  head  of  the  party. 

"You'll  prove  that,"  said  the  sergeant,  coldly. 

"An'  all  ye  have  agin  these  young  men  is  that  they 
are  Americans  ?"  said  the  king  cf  the  fishers,  folding  his 
arms. 

"That's  it,"  said  the  sergeant;  "and  Americans  have 
given  us  trouble  of  late." 

"Have  they,  then?"  and  the  fishermen  looked  amazed. 

"They  may  be  Fenians  in  disguise." 

"Yes,  they  may  be  Fenians  in  disguise,"  repeated  the 
fisherman  of  Galilee. 

"So  no  more  delay,"  added  the  policeman,  "but  fall  in, 
boys." 

"You  mean  to  arrest  us?"  I  said. 

"If  you  call  it  that  way." 

"And  where  will  you  bring  us  first,  before  a  magis- 
trate?" 

"He  is  away  from  home.  No;  you'll  stay  in  quarters 
till  he  returns." 

"So  we  will  be  practically  in  jail?" 

"You  can  call  it  what  you  like." 

"I  refuse  to  go.  I  can  easily  go  before  a  magistrate 
of  my  own  accord  and  prove  myself  free  from  these 
charges." 

"You'll  come  now." 

"Tarn  the  foot !"  It  was  the  fisherman  who  spoke,  and 
his  voice  thundered  over  the  heads  of  those  who  were 
standing  near,  and  along  the  beach,  and  through  the  heavy 
gray  atmosphere  far  out  to  sea,  where  the  fishermen  were 
casting  their  nets.  "Tarn  the  foot!"  he  repeated. 

"You  will  defy  the  law?"  said  the  policeman,  aghast. 

8 


112  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"I  defy  the  police,"  said  the  fisherman.  "I  am  king 
of  this  Island,  an'  protect  visitors  from  tarn  rascals,  an' 
that's  what  ye  are." 

"We  will  do  anything  to  save  trouble,"  I  said,  nervously, 
"but  this  is  an  unnecessary  insult." 

"Ye  will  not  go,  not  one  tarn  foot;  an'  I  dare  these 
bluecoats  to  take  ye,  so  I  do.  Come  on,  an'  we'll  dip 
them  in  th'  say." 

"We'll  see  about  this  treatment,"  vociferated  the  police. 
"We  can  force  them  to  come." 

"Try  it,  ye  tarn  thieves,"  roared  the  fisher  chieftain. 
"Try  it  an'  see  what  ye'll  make  of  it." 

The  sergeant  counted  his  men,  and  prudence  overcame 
valor.  He  knew  Galilee. 

The  men  conferred  in  Gaelic  as  we  finished  our  repast, 
and  ere  Her  Majesty's  Royal  Irish  Constabulary  had  got 
to  the  main  road,  arrangements  were  made  to  carry  us 
and  our  instruments  to  a  point  far  from  the  jurisdiction 
of  the  disappointed  peelers. 

Not  one  fisher  offered  his  yawl  alone,  but  a  dozen  did 
so.  The  choice  was  decided  by  our  host. 

"You'll  be  taking  the  short  cut,"  said  Beezey,  reas- 
suringly, as  she  returned  our  foot-wear  in  princely  order, 
for  the  wind  had  veered  around  and  we  were  by  this  time 
high  in  favor,  "and  you'll  pass  by  Gorumna  and  around 
by  the  Lettermullen  Islands  and  up  Cashla  Bay.  The 
old  piper  is  going  along  and  a  little  keg  of  the  best. 
You'll  see  old  Coluim  Wallace,  the  Gaelic  songster,  the 
best  in  all  Ireland.  Tell  him  you  are  Americans;  that's 
enough.  He  knows  how  to  give  you  the  welcome  and  the 
Beanacht  leat" 

"Don't  forget  to  see  th'  magistrate  an'  get  yer  papers, 


NED  THE  INNOCENT  113 

an'  then  come  back  an'  see  us  before  ye  go  back  to 
America." 

"I  have  a  cousin  in  America  somewhere,"  said  another. 
"Tell  him  ye  saw  me,  an'  'tis  lathers  how  plazed  he'll 
be." 

Maura,  the  maid,  was  anxious  to  send  a  message  to 
America ;  but  her  English  was  very  broken,  and  although 
she  knew  the  name  of  her  friend,  she  had  forgotten  the 
name  of  the  state  in  which  he  resided,  but  that  made  no 
difference  to  us.  We  promised  everything  and  they 
were  very  much  pleased,  and  we  made  no  perfidious  boasts. 
I,  for  one,  meant  on  our  return  to  make  due  inquiries  in 
my  immediate  circle  for  those  much-mourned  exiles. 

The  first  chance  I  got  to  speak  to  the  old  woman,  I 
whispered:  "I  was  in  the  old  graveyard  last  night." 
With  the  alertness  of  fear  she  turned. 

"And  you  saw — you  saw " 

"I  saw  a  young  man  bidding  farewell  to " 

"You  will  never  let  go  the  word  that  will  hurt  him?" 
she  added,  breathlessly.  "He  did  nothing,  poor  lad,  only 
what  you  would  do  in  the  same  case." 

"No,  no,"  I  assured  her,  for  his  faults  or  virtues  inter- 
ested me  very  little.  "But  the  young  lady " 

"Hush,  hush!"  said  the  old  woman,  trembling.    "You 

are  the  first  one  outside  of  myself,  and  perhaps  Ned,  to 

know  the  old  passage.    How  many  of  you  were  there?" 

"Not  a  soul,  besides  myself,"  I  said  impatiently,  not  at 

all  interested  in  the  private  passage. 

"And  you  will  never  divulge " 

"I  am  an  American,  and  we  are  not  informers." 
"No,  no,"  she  answered,  apologetically;  "but  promise 
me  you'll  never  tell  to  man  or  mortal " 


114  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Tell  what?    About  the  young  lady " 

"There  is  nothing,"  she  whispered,  fiercely.  "I  nursed 
both  of  them,  the  boy  and  the  girl,  and  it's  a  hard  come- 
down for  her,  the  daughter  of  the  old  race,  to  be  stealing 
out  at  night,  like  a  thief." 

"Any  girl  would  do  that  to  see  her " 

"Oh,  you  don't  know  the  darling,  alone  in  the  old  place 
with  her  thoughts  and  her  fears,  and  the  only  one  of  the 
name  hidden  in  a  strange  land,  for  no  crime  but  love  of 
liberty,  if  that  be  a  crime." 

"Then  this  young  man  is " 

"The  best  boy  on  earth,  the  kindest,  the  truest  heart, 
the  most  generous " 

I  was  piqued  at  this  recital  of  his  virtues.  "And  what 
is  he?" 

"The  son  of  a  gentleman,  the  descendant  of  a  line  of 
kings  that  go  back  as  far  as  Noah." 

"Oh,  no  doubt;  but  what  was  he  to  her?"  I  succeeded 
in  getting  out  what  I  wanted  at  last,  but  it  was  an  effort. 
The  old  woman  looked  at  me  astonished. 

"Her  brother,"  she  answered.  "Yerra!  did  you  think 
she'd  go  out  to  meet  anybody  else  ?" 

"Come  on,  boys,"  I  shouted.  "All  aboard,  all  aboard 
for  the  short  cut,  and  the  islands  between,"  and  then 
turning  to  the  old  woman,  I  whispered,  "I  know  where  her 
— the  young  lady's  brother — is  going"  (adding  to  myself, 
"I'll  find  out,")  "and  tell  her  I  will  look  out  and  be  a 
friend  to  him.  Good-by;  we  will  return  with  our  letters 
of  safety." 

"Good-by,"  and  the  old  woman  pressed  my  hand  to 
show  me  she  understood.  "Good-by,  and  God  bless  you! 
Come  back  again  soon !" 


EXCOMMUNICATED  115 


EXCOMMUNICATED. 

"Ye  will  be  clifted.    Ha,  ha,  ha !" 

The  "ha,  ha,  ha,"  and  a  gurgle  or  two  that  seemed  to 
come  from  the  throat  of  a  laughing  child,  leaped  from 
peak  to  peak  and  was  repeated  in  ghostly  whispers 
from  every  side  of  me.  I  looked  for  the  author  of  the 
strange  warning,  but  was  unable  to  pierce  the  mist,  which 
hung  over  the  mountains  and  was  slowly  enveloping  them 
like  a  huge  gray  mantle. 

"Ye  go  up  dere,  but  ye  can't  come  down.  Ha,  ha, 
ha!" 

The  "ha,  ha,  ha's"  were  repeated  from  peak  to  peak 
as  before,  in  the  same  ghostly  whispers,  the  gurgling  fol- 
lowing like  a  sob.  It  was  all  true.  I  had  :been  climbing 
this  rocky  mountain  for  hours  and  knew  not  how  to  re- 
turn. Every  step  took  me  into  a  new  and  undesirable 
country.  There  was  a  suspicion  of  showers  in  the  air, 
and  my  mackintosh  was  folded  around  some  rare  speci- 
mens in  Molly  Mullaney's  cabin  on  Bena  Cullagh. 

I  had  been  climbing  Bena-y-Vricaan,  expecting  to  come 
upon  a  view  of  Glen  Inagh,  with  its  lake  of  wooded 
islands,  and  realized  at  last  that  in  my  eagerness  to 
reach  the  desired  spot  I  had  taken  the  wrong  ma'am 
(mountain  pass).  I  was  made  aware  of  my  mistake,  even 
before  I  heard  the  warning  cry,  by  the  change  in  the  at- 
mosphere as  well  as  by  the  texture  of  the  ground  wvier 
my  feet. 


11G       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

I  was  following  an  ascent — a  mere  goat-path — on  the 
face  of  the  rock.  Nothing  was  visible  but  the  great 
white  rocks,  barren  as  the  desert  of  Sahara.  All  was  still 
save  the  murmurs  of  the  distant  sea,  beating  against  the 
cliffs,  and  occasionally  the  sharp  scream  of  a  curlew  or 
the  shriek  of  a  startled  sea-gull.  There  was  a  chill  in  the 
misty  air,  which  pierced  my  thin  clothing  and  set  me 
shivering. 

What  a  contrast  this  was  to  the  fair  mountain-side, 
which  yesterday  I  had  traversed,  where  the  blended  per- 
fumes of  many  flowers  intoxicated  the  senses  and  the 
notes  of  my  feathered  friends,  the  song-birds,  charmed 
me  into  repose  and  contentment.  That  was  a  paradise, 
indeed,  compared  with  this  desolate,  barren  waste. 

This  was  being  "clifted,"  I  suppose.  I  had  never 
heard  the  word  before,  though  I  had  climbed  Ben  Bawn 
and  Ben  Coor,  and  every  Ben  in  the  range  which  sepa- 
rates Connemara  from  Joyces  Country. 

I  tried  to  obey  the  warning  of  my  mysterious  friend 
or  taunting  enemy,  and  started  to  retrace  my  steps,  but 
only  succeeded  in  plunging  myself  farther  into  a  region 
as  wild  and  terrific  as  a  Norwegian  fiord,  so  great  a 
paradox  is  Connemara.  I  was  lost,  lost,  lost !  The  words 
rose  like  a  despairing  cry  from  my  heart  and  returned 
to  me  unrecognizable.  Every  peak  repeated  them  in  yet 
more  despairing  tones,  until  they  died  away  on  the  bosom 
of  the  Atlantic.  I  was  fast  losing  hope.  I  now  knew 
what  "clifted"  meant  and  much  regretted  going  without 
a  guide.  It  was  dark,  not  because  the  sun  had  set,  but 
because  the  mountains  that  surrounded  the  pass  had  shut 
it  out. 

I  was  lost,  and  probably  within  a  few  feet   (as  the 


EXCOMMUNICATED  117 

crow  flies)  of  a  friendly  peasant,  who  would  give  the 
veriest  wretch  on  earth  a  seat  at  his  hearth.  But  where 
was  the  hearth?  I  called  again.  The  same  ghostly 
echoes  replied ;  the  same  wave  of  despair  died  in  the  sea. 

Night  was  really  coming  on.  To  ascend  or  descend 
was  impossible  and  the  blessings  of  sleep  forbidden,  for 
the  first  moment  of  unconsciousness  would  mean  a  fall 
into  the  rocky  gorge  below  and  instant  death.  It  was 
hard  to  die  within  reach  of  a  friendly,  hospitable  people. 
I  called  again.  My  voice  was  so  weak  that  it  could 
scarcely  be  heard  twenty  feet  away,  but  before  the  echoes 
had  time  to  play  with  my  misery,  they  were  busy  with 
a  reply. 

"How  did  ye  get  up  dere?    Ugh !" 

I  thought  it  an  hallucination — a  dream;  but  surely 
someone  was  moving  below — a  man,  grotesque,  ragged, 
wild,  sublime,  and  almost  superhuman  in  his  daring,  for 
he  trod  the  jagged  and  nearly  perpendicular  rocks  with 
a  reckless  abandon. 

As  the  figure  neared  me,  I  saw  that  it  was  a  man  of 
unusual  height  and  that  he  used  his  outstretched  arms  to 
steady  himself.  His  unusual  height  was  caused  by  a 
head-gear  composed  of  at  least  three  hats,  placed  one 
over  the  other.  Not  feeling  a  bit  reassured,  I  waited  with 
as  much  composure  as  I  could  assume  till  he  came  on 
a  level. 

He  stopped  and  scanned  me  sleepily.  He  might  be 
any  age  from  twenty  to  forty,  and  his  hair,  long  and 
black,  hung  over  his  shoulders.  His  face,  though  vacant 
looking,  was  not  evil.  This  strange  apparition  grunted : 
"Don't  ye  like  it  here?" 

My  teeth  chattered  with  the  cold  as  I  answered,  "No." 


118       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

Without  another  word  he  picked  me  up,  placed  me  on 
his  shoulders,  and  commenced  the  descent.  He  seemed 
to  choose  the  most  precipitous  places  and  to  have  not  the 
slightest  fear.  Too  stunned  to  do  anything  but  hold 
on  for  dear  life,  I  made  the  best  of  my  fate  and  shut 
my  eyes.  What  manner  of  man  this  was  I  dared  not 
think.  I  only  waited  for  the  end.  We  were  midway 
in  our  descent  when  a  smooth  ledge,  jutting  out  from 
the  rocky  mountain  path,  attracted  his  eye.  He  stopped 
and,  taking  a  top  from  his  pocket,  coolly  wound  a  string 
around  it  and  set  it  spinning  there.  The  gyrations  of  the 
toy  seemed  to  fill  him  with  delight,  and  he  evidently  for- 
got all  about  me.  I  looked  down  the  terrible  cliff  that 
still  lay  between  me  and  the  Glen,  and  my  heart  sick- 
ened. Was  I  in  a  madman's  hands  ? 

"Ye  don't  like  it?"  questioned  the  man  on  hearing  me 
groan.  I  assented.  He  pocketed  the  top  and  recom- 
menced the  descent.  By  circuitous  paths  and  steep, 
sheltering  boulders  on  which  a  goat  would  hardly  obtain 
footing,  he  steered  his  way  till  I  found  myself  on  the 
ma'am,  looking  into  a  cheerless  mountain  cabin. 

"Let  de  gen'man  warm  hisself,  Sheila,"  said  my  guide, 
throwing  himself  on  the  floor  and  preparing  to  spin  his 
top. 

"I  will  pay  you  for  your  trouble,"  I  added.  "I  am 
nearly  famished." 

The  old  woman  addressed  raised  her  head  and  regarded 
me  with  anything  but  a  friendly  eye. 

"I  don't  want  your  money,  Sassanagh"  (Englishman), 
she  said,  fiercely.  "Another  lies  dead  within — another 
victim  of  your  country's  injustice  and  oppression.  Be- 
gone! Begone,  I  say!" 


EXCOMMUNICATED  119 

From  an  inner  room  came  the  sound  of  weeping  and 
even  through  the  gloom  I  could  see  the  rigid  lines  of  a 
corpse,  swathed  in  linen  and  ready  for  burial.  Surprised 
at  this  exception  to  the  rule  of  Irish  hospitality,  I  turned 
to  go  when,  dizzy  with  long  fasting,  I  tottered  and  fell. 

I  woke  to  the  flapping  of  sails  and  the  sound  of  many 
voices. 

"Gie  th'  gen'man  some  whiska;  he's  cauld.  Put 
wather  in  it.  Ye'll  choke  him." 

I  recognized  the  voice.  It  was  that  of  my  rescuer. 
The  wind  was  rising  and  it  was  difficult  to  hear  the 
reply.  It  came  at  last: 

"Put  some  wather  in  it?  Let  him  dhrink  it  sthraight, 
an'  he's  a  man.  We'll  have  wather  enough  by  an'  by 
if  this  wind  keeps  on." 

We  were  evidently  in  a  fishing-smack  away  out  at  sea. 
I  sat  up  and  drank  the  liquor  that  a  rough-looking  fisher- 
man was  trying  to  pass  between  my  lips.  A  little  water 
would  not  harm  the  "whiska,"  which  was  very  fiery; 
but  it  warmed  me  and  I  was  able  to  take  in  the  situation. 
It  was  growing  dark,  but  I  could  see  the  outlines  of  an- 
other boat  keeping  as  close  to  us  as  the  weather  permitted. 
It  was  a  fishing  company  banded  together  for  mutual 
help,  and  the  men  of  both  boats  were  busy  preparing  their 
nets  and  lowering  and  raising  their  sails  according  to 
the  set  of  the  wind. 

"Where  did  ye  find  him,  Ned?"  The  wind  carried  the 
words  to  my  ears  and  tore  with  them  out  to  sea. 

"On  Bena-y-Vricaan.  He  didn't  like  it.  He  was 
schreechin'  like  de  debbel,  so  he  was." 

The  wind  had  not  slackened,  but  I  could  hear  the 
laugh  that  followed. 


120       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"I  wondher  why  he  didn't  like  it?  Eyah,  it's  quare 
taste  those  forriners  have !  An'  where  are  ye  brinin' 
him  now?" 

"To  Father  Tom's." 

"To  Father  Tom's?  An'  d'ye  think  we  have  nothin' 
else  to  do  but  tackle  a'  'round  be  th'  Bay  an'  lose  two 
hours  to  accommodate  ye,  an'  th'  herrin's  waitin'  ?" 

"I'm  goin'  to  brin'  him  to  see  Miss  Eleanor.  She'll 
gie  him  some  supper,  so  she  will." 

"Well,  he  should  have  hired  Pat  Dunleavy's  boat  if  he's 
expected,  an'  not  disappoint  th'  lada." 

"  Miss  Eleanor  don't  know  he's  comin' ;  she  don't  know 
him,  so  she  don't;  but  I'm  brinin'  him  kase  I  likes  him, 
so  I  does." 

"Oh,  that's  it !  Well,  then,  if  it's  no  disappointment  to 
th'  lada,  I  haven't  th'  laste  scruple  in  life  in  makin'  him 
wait  an  hour  or  two  longer  fer  his  males.  I  don't  think 
we  need  put  ourselves  so  much  about  for  a  Sassanagh." 

"I  must  apologize  for  the  trouble  I  am  giving  you," 
I  interrupted  from  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  "I  shall  only 
be  too  glad  to  be  allowed  to  see  a  haul  of  fish.  This  is 
my  first  chance  to  see  any  fishing  here.  I  have  been  here 
long  enough  to  know  that  a  Sassanagh  means  an  English- 
man. I  am  an  American." 

"An  American?  Why  didn't  ye  tell  us  that  before, 
Ned  ?  Have  another  dhrink,  sir." 

I  declined  the  drink  with  thanks,  and  begged  them  to 
continue  their  course.  To  my  surprise,  my  guide  was 
sobbing  and  stamping  like  a  spoiled  child. 

"I  want  to  go  to  Miss  Eleanor's,"  he  cried.  "Ye'll 
have  to  brin'  us  dere,  so  ye  will." 

"  No,  no !"  I  cried,  too  stunned  to  say  more. 


EXCOMMUNICATED  121 

"It's  two  hours  lost,"  said  the  leader,  gravely;  "an'  th' 
storm  may  overtake  us  before  we  can  come  home." 

"How  do  ye  know  that  we'll  have  a  chance  to  come 
home  ?"  asked  a  bronzed  and  bearded  old  fisherman,  who 
had  not  yet  spoken.  "I  don't  like  th'  look  o'  th'  mist  that 
hangs  over  Gorumna,"  and  he  pointed  to  an  island  in  the 
distance.  "  I  don't  like  it  when  she  wears  it  like  a  shroud. 
It  manes  a  big  storm  an'  a  sudden  one.  It  might  come 
on  us  when  we  are  too  far  away  from  shelter." 

"It  was  no  nicht  to  venture  oot.  When  th'  shroud  is 
on  Gorumna.  I  nuvver  heard  tell  o'  it  turnin'  oot  ony 
ways  but  unlucky,"  said  another. 

"I  don't  believe  in  any  kind  o'  luck,"  said  a  young  man, 
determinedly.  "We're  afther  th'  herrin',  an'  if  we  go  to 
th'  Bay  we'll  lose  th'  time " 

"An'  if  we  go  ahead  we  may  lose  our  lives." 

"I  don't  like  to  hear  th'  innocent  cryin'." 

"That's  all  superstition,  I  say.  Don't  change  th' 
coorse." 

"  Yes,  yes !    Th'  innocent  doesn't  cry  fer  nothin' !" 

There  was  an  ominous  calm  in  the  air,  and  the  dispute 
was  settled  by  a  vote.  Much  to  my  sorrow  and  mortifica- 
tion, the  decision  was  in  favor  of  Ned's  proposition,  and 
then  all  hands  cheerfully  tacked  and  the  little  fleet  sailed 
for  the  Bay.  Ned,  who  was  the  cause  of  this  change  of 
program,  sat  and  watched  the  distant  horizon. 

"It's  comin' !"  he  shouted.  "Th'  gale's  comin' !  Hurry 
up !  Oh,  hurry  up !" 

Within  sight  of  the  priest's  residence  the  storm-cloud 
burst.  With  the  full  knowledge  of  the  treachery  hidden 
under  the  usual  calm  of  the  cruel  sea,  the  men  had 
furled  every  sail  and  left  nothing  for  the  wind  to  wreak 


122  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

vengeance  on.  Every  man  worked  for  dear  life,  and  I 
obeyed  orders  with  the  rest.  It  was  no  use.  The  wind 
lifted  the  frail  crafts  like  a  couple  of  playthings  and  tossed 
them  before  her,  where  they  seemed  to  leap  from  wave 
to  wave  on  their  way  to  destruction. 

The  inhabitants  of  the  ocean-bound  village  were  out, 
but  they  could  do  nothing  to  help  us.  The  lightnings 
seemed  to  descend  from  the  tops  of  the  mountains  and 
throw  themselves  against  us  with  premeditated  malice. 
The  men  lost  all  control  of  the  crafts  and  gave  up  in 
despair. 

Few  fishermen  can  swim,  and  even  if  the  land  were 
within  easy  reach,  the  heavy  sea-boots  and  other  clothing 
considered  necessary  on  a  fishing  trip  render  the  possi- 
bility of  reaching  safety  very  improbable. 

The  wind  seemed  to  laugh  at  our  efforts  to  save  our- 
selves, and  with  shrieks  of  delight  to  undo  all  our  feeble 
attempts  to  reach  land.  Then,  with  the  capriciousness  of 
a  practiced  coquette,  after  reducing  us  to  despair,  she 
veered  around,  picked  up  the  frail  crafts,  and  drove  them 
before  her  almost  to  the  very  shore  and  then  capsized 
them. 

"Every  man  for  himself  an'  God  for  us  all!"  roared 
an  old  fisherman,  as  he  plunged  into  the  seething  waves. 

With  a  rush  of  water  in  my  ears  and  a  faint  regret 
that  I  had  not  learned  to  swim,  I  was  coolly  counting  the 
last  seconds  that  divided  time  from  eternity  when  a  hand 
grasped  my  collar  and  a  familiar  voice  sang : 

"Oh,  come  to  th'  Regatta, 
Th'  ravishin'  Regatta ! 
Oh,  come  to  th'  Regatta 
At  Outerard! 


EXCOMMUNICATED  123 

"Th'  boys  an'  girls  are  there ; 
Faith,  it's  betther  than  a  fair 
To  see  th'  crowds  so  quare 
At  Outerard! 

"There's  style  an'  beauty  great, 
An'  everythin'  complate, 
An'  lashin's  there  to  ate — 
At  Outerard! 

"Th'  first  boat  comes  dancin'  in, 
Wi'  cheers,  an'  fun,  an'  din, 
Fer  it  carried  Paddy  Quin 
At  Outerard!" 

It  was  Ned,  my  rescuer  from  the  mountain,  and  his 
voice  rang  above  the  whirl  of  the  storm  as  he  carried  me 
over  his  head  and  deposited  me  on  the  beach  among  a 
crowd  of  others. 

"Not  a  soul  went  undher.  This  young  man  is  alive, 
too.  Wondherftil,  wondherful !" 

"An'  ony  fer  Ned  we'd  be  far  from  any  help.  I  toult 
ye  to  heed  th'  innocent,"  said  the  old  gray-beard  who  was 
accused  of  superstition.  "If  we  hadn't  obliged  him  by 
turnin'  in  to  Father  Tom's,  we'd  be  all  at  th'  bottom  of 
th'  say  by  this  time.  Wonderful,  wonderful !" 

The  people  of  the  village,  who  had  all  turned  out  to 
help  the  unfortunate  fishermen,  now  went  home,  leaving 
them  to  the  hospitality  of  the  priest,  whose  ample  kitchen 
was  even  now  crowded  with  half-drowned  men. 

A  stout,  middle-aged  man,  whose  thumb  was  inserted 
between  the  pages  of  a  book  which  I  afterward  learned 
was  a  breviary,  turned  a  sharp  look  in  my  direction. 
Ned  had  deposited  me  on  a  settle  back  of  the  fire,  and 
for  a  few  moments  I  was  too  exhausted  to  move. 

"This  is  not  one  of  the  boys,"  he  said,  "but  he  is  in 
very  much  need  of  assistance.  Get  him  some  dry  clothes." 


124  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"There  isn't  a  dhry  stitch  in  th'  house,  yer  reverence," 
answered  the  housekeeper.  "Ned'll  have  to  wear  one 
of  my  skirts.  The  gentleman  looks  bad,  too,  an'  quite 
wore  out." 

I  was  saved  an  explanation  by  the  entrance  of  my  guide 
of  the  mountain  and  rescuer  from  a  watery  death.  His 
appearance  was  the  signal  for  uproarious  laughter  in 
which  even  the  priest  joined;  for  he  was  wearing  with 
great  dignity  the  housekeeper's  contribution  to  the  out- 
fitting, and  though  she  was  a  tall  woman,  the  skirt  reached 
but  a  short  way  below  the  knee,  while  between  the  band 
and  the  hem  of  the  accompanying  jacket  were  three  inches 
of  uncovered  territory. 

"Tut,  tut,  Ned!"  said  the  clergyman,  with  difficulty. 
"Go  out  to  Tim  Dwyer's  and  tell  him  to  give  you  a  suit 
for  a  few  hours — while  yours  is  drying." 

"Ah,  someone  might  stale  mine  while  I'm  away,"  said 
Ned,  taking  a  bite  from  a  wedge  of  oat-cake.  "But  ye 
ought  to  borrow  a  suit  fer  dis  gen'man.  I  found  him  on 
Bena-y-Vricaan,  an'  I  brought  him  to  Miss  Eleanor, 
cause  he  wants  his  supper." 

I  was  enjoying  the  warmth  and  appetizing  odors  of  the 
expansive  kitchen,  as  befitted  one  who  had  not  broken 
his  fast  since  daybreak.  A  huge  vessel  of  potatoes  was 
hanging  on  the  crane  over  a  turf  fire,  while  two  bare- 
footed maids  were  turning  out  dishes  of  fresh  herring, 
broiled  to  a  nicety,  which  they  were  laying  on  a  long  deal 
table  as  white  as  sand  and  seaweed  could  make  it.  Over 
my  head  hung  flitches  of  bacon  and  hams  and  ropes  of 
sweet  herbs  and  onions.  Everything  betokened  cleanli- 
ness and  plenty,  from  the  rafters  to  the  neatly  sanded 
floor,  and  last,  but  not  least,  hospitality,  that  great  virtue 
practiced  in  Connemara  as  in  no  place  on  earth. 


EXCOMMUNICATED  125 

Father  Tom  took  the  care  and  housing  of  these  un- 
fortunate fishermen  as  naturally  as  if  they  had  been 
members  of  his  own  family,  and  even  I,  a  stranger,  felt 
quite  at  home.  He  was  now  bending  over  me  anxiously, 
feeling  my  pulse,  and  whispering  in  Gaelic  to  a  young 
lady  who  appeared  on  the  scene,  carrying  a  tray  and  a 
foaming  glass. 

"It's  only  egg-nog,"  he  said,  as  I  opened  my  eyes 
inquiringly,  "and  made  expressly  for  you  by  my  niece, 
to  whom  Ned  has  given  a  list  of  your  misfortunes  to-day. 
Drink  it  down  and  I'll  see  you  to  your  room.  A  good 
rest  will  restore  you  and  we  can  dry  your  clothes." 

"No,  no,"  I  replied.  "I  am  well  now.  I  was  only 
tired  out;  but  I  am  giving  you  lots  of  trouble.  That 
egg-nog  has  worked  wonders." 

A  beautiful  face,  with  pitying  eyes,  looked  into  mine 
as  I  returned  the  empty  glass,  and  shamed  me  into  ex- 
ertion. I  sprang  to  my  feet. 

"Uncle,"  said  the  owner  of  the  pitying  eyes,  "maybe 
Father  Henry  left  some  clothes  here."  How  musical  the 
voice  was,  and  how  it  matched  the  face ! 

"Tut,  tut!  What  a  memory  I  have!  Of  course  he 
did!  Come  on,  young  man,  and  get  a  change  before 
supper.  And  now,"  he  exclaimed,  turning  to  the  rest, 
"eat  hearty,  boys,  and  make  yourselves  as  comfortable 
as  possible." 

With  a  clerical  suit  of  clothes  that  suited  me  to  a 
nicety,  I  was  soon  seated  before  a  tea  equipage  in  the 
parlor,  doing  justice  to  a  bountiful  meal.  It  was  a 
pleasant  room,  with  a  small  fire  burning  in  a  low  grate, 
and  a  large  window  that  swept  the  Bay.  The  storm  had 
abated,  and  the  wind  was  sobbing  softly  over  the  damage 
done. 


126  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

The  parsonage  was  very  plain,  but  homelike  and  com- 
fortable. There  was  no  carpet  on  the  parlor.  The  floor 
was  well  scrubbed  and  a  few  tiny  rugs  were  placed  at 
intervals  over  its  expansive  surface,  while  for  ornaments 
there  were  sea-shells  and  mosses  as  well  as  a  few  natural 
flowers.  I  noticed,  however,  that  the  walls  were  well 
lined  with  books,  in  which  the  classics  were  well  repre- 
sented and  which  told  me  plainly  that  Father  Tom,  in 
spite  of  his  bronzed  exterior,  was  a  student. 

"Only  a  naggin  of  whisky  apiece  for  the  boys  in  the 
kitchen,  to  keep  out  the  effects  of  the  cold,  and  a  plentiful 
supper,"  he  said  to  his  niece,  as  she  poured  out  our  tea. 
"See  that  the  lads  are  not  stinted." 

"Ay,"  answered  the  stout  housekeeper  from  the  shadow 
of  the  door.  "They're  atin'  awa'  noo,  an'  th'  whiska 
wasna  half  enou'  to  go  roon,  but  th'  potaties  an'  herrin' 
are  goin'  fly  in'." 

"Jennie,  you  don't  begrudge  them,  surely,  and  the 
poor  fellows  only  now  snatched  from  the  jaws  of  death?" 

"Ay,  ay,  their  ain  jaws  are  noo  makin'  oop  fer  it. 
Ilka  man  is  likely  to  do  awa'  wi'  half  a  stane  of  potaties, 
an'  th'  bin  is  maist  empty,  yer  reverence." 

"What  matter,  Jennie?  Sure  it  never  was  quite  empty. 
God  always  fills  it  again." 

"I  see  no  need  of  sich  waste,"  persisted  Jennie,  cau- 
tiously. "There's  th'  warst  o'  livin'  so  close  to  th'  say. 
Ye're  likely  to  hae  all  th'  wrecks." 

"And  we'll  take  care  of  them,  please  God.  This  is  no 
time  to  economize,"  continued  the  priest,  severely.  "He 
who  rules  the  storms,  drove  those  poor  lads  to  our  door. 
Let  us  use  them  well.  He  will  repay  us  a  hundredfold." 

"That  will  comfort  her,"  said  the  priest,  laughing,  as 


EXCOMMUNICATED  127 

the  woman  disappeared.  "Jennie  is  an  economical 
housekeeper  and  an  inhospitable  soul,  but  what  could 
be  expected  of  a  native  of  the  far  North?  She  does  not 
understand  Connemara." 

"Uncle,"  said  the  young  girl  with  the  musical  voice, 
as  she  returned  from  assisting  the  housekeeper  with  the 
supper  in  the  kitchen,  "there  is  a  piper  below,  and  the 
boys  would  like  to  hear  a  tune  and  maybe  step  it  out  a 
little.  We  could  close  these  doors  and  hardly  hear 
them." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  priest,  after  a  pause.  "It  might 
take  the  damp  of  their  sea  dip  out  of  their  bones ;  that  is, 
if  it  doesn't  disturb  this  gentleman." 

I  protested  that,  feeling  much  refreshed,  I  would  be 
pleased  to  see  the  dance,  and  Miss  Eleanor  brought  me 
to  the  scene  of  the  festivities.  The  piper  was  turning 
his  pipes  with  much  preliminary  wheezing  and  groaning 
when  we  entered  that  cheerful  apartment. 

After  three  cheers  for  Miss  Eleanor,  who  appeared 
to  be  a  favorite,  and  another  for  the  stranger,  the  piper 
started  to  his  work.  To  my  surprise,  the  prelude  was 
sadness  itself.  Instantly  the  expression  of  the  faces  pres- 
ent changed  from  contentment  to  deep  sorrow,,  and  heads 
were  bent  and  rocked  back  and  forth  as  if  under  the 
weight  of  some  heavy  calamity.  As  the  piper  continued 
his  wild,  lugubrious  strains,  the  sadness  deepened  and 
finally  tears  rolled  down  the  bronzed  faces  of  the  men, 
as  well  as  the  fair,  round  cheeks  of  the  girls. 

"I  thought  they  were  going  to  dance,"  I  whispered 
in  the  ear  of  my  conductress. 

"They  are,"  she  replied;  "but  you  must  recollect  that 

the  Celt,  who  is  necessarily  a  poet,  is  influenced  by  his 
o 


128  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

surroundings.  Like  the  sea,  he  is  either  sobbing  or 
laughing.  He  has  his  moods,  and  grief  for  those  gone 
before  is  one  of  his  luxuries.  Listen !  It's  a  lamentation 
for  those  poor  fellows  drowned  at  Killary  Bay."  The 
audience  was  singing  now,  and  the  song  was  like  a  cry, 
a  low,  heart-broken  cry.  The  old  piper  led  them  on 
from  verse  to  refrain  like  a  leader  who  knew  his  own. 
The  song  was  in  Gaelic,  and  the  only  recognizable  words 
were:  "Killary  Bay!  Oh,  Killary  Bay!"  "It  is  the 
cry  of  a  young  girl  driven  insane  by  the  drowning  of  her 
lover  at  Killary  Bay,  and  he  was  only  one  of  many  lost 
in  that  big  storm,"  whispered  Miss  Eleanor,  and  as  they 
sang  she  translated : 

"From  Killary  Bay  he  sailed  away, 

My  lover  brave  and  true ; 
And  o'er  the  dancing,  rippling  waves, 
His  corrach  fairly  flew. 

"He  promised  to  return  to  me, 

Whatever  should  betide ; 
Come  back,  come  back,  my  bonnie  lad, 
And  claim  your  promised  bride. 

"'Come  back,'  the  sad  waves  answered  her; 

The  fair  girl  cried  in  vain, 
For  on  the  sands  of  Killary  Bay 
He  ne'er  was  seen  again." 

Like  the  rapid  change  from  storm  to  sunshine  in  Con- 
nemara,  the  piper's  theme  now  changed  from  death  and 
sadness  to  life  and  gaiety.  He  began  to  play  a  planxty, 
and  in  an  instant  the  sobbing  ceased,  and  heads  that  were 
stooped  under  a  load  of  grief  became  erect  and  alert. 

"Take  yer  places  fer  a  four-handed  reel !"  shouted 
the  piper.  "Put  yer  best  foot  forward,  pick  out  yer 
sweetheart — if  yer  lucky  enough  to  have  one — an'  welt 
away !" 


EXCOMMUNICATED  129 

The  scene  that  followed  baffles  description.  Every 
one  was  on  the  floor  with  the  exception  of  the  house- 
keeper. As  the  promiscuous  garments  worn  by  the  fisher- 
men were  simply  donned  while  their  own  were  drying, 
a  good  fit  was  an  exception,  not  the  rule,  and  it  was 
almost  impossible  for  a  spectator  to  keep  a  serious  counte- 
nance. In  a  few  cases  the  garments  were  too  large  and 
were  turned  up  at  the  wrists  and  the  ankles;  but  as  a 
rule  the  fishermen  were  tall  and  the  borrowed  clothes 
belonged  to  men  of  smaller  stature,  consequently  a  laugh- 
able discrepancy  was  the  rule.  However,  this  was  not  a 
fashionable  assembly,  but — through  the  absence  of  fa- 
talities— a  merry  one,  and  every  innovation  was  excused. 

The  dancing  was  more  spirited  than  precise  for  a  while, 
each  man  using  his  own  judgment  about  the  length  of 
his  steps  and  the  height  of  his  springs.  Ned,  who  still 
wore  the  housekeeper's  skirt  and  was  impartially  offering 
himself  as  a  partner  to  every  one  in  turn  and  sometimes 
all  together,  was  doing  much  damage  to  the  reel,  yet  no 
one  had  the  heart  to  exclude  him  from  the  merrymaking. 
What  the  greater  number  missed  in  skill,  they  made  up 
in  merriment — merriment  without  a  particle  of  coarse- 
ness. 

Suddenly  Ned  collided  with  his  partner  and  fell,  carry- 
ing half  a  dozen  in  his  wake  and  damaging  the  house- 
keeper's skirt  irreparably.  This  exploit  only  evoked  fresh 
peals  of  laughter;  but  it  wound  up  Ned's  career  as  a 
dancer  for  that  night  at  least,  and  he  was  led  away  by 
Miss  Eleanor — whose  slightest  word  seemed  law  to  him — 
and  given  a  seat  in  the  rear. 

"Poor  Ned!"  said  the  young  lady;  "he  means  well, 
but  he  is  apt  to  be  troublesome,  sometimes." 


130       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Ned — Ned  'the  innocent' — I  hear  them  call  him." 

"Yes,  because  he  is  in  wit  but  a  child." 

"He  does  some  very  daring  things,"  I  said,  "and 
must  be  possessed  of  great  strength.  He  literally  carried 
me  over  the  face  of  a  precipitous  rock  and  bore  me  to 
safety  twice  to-day." 

"He  whom  God  guides  is  well  guided,"  answered  the 
young  lady,  gravely.  "Of  such  as  Ned  is  the  Kingdom 
of  Heaven.  You  were  fortunate  in  meeting  him  and  he 
appears  to  like  you,  which  is  a  good  sign,  at  least  we  all 
think  so." 

I  inferred  from  this  that  I  had  found  some  favor  in 
Miys  Eleanor's  eyes,  and  I  threw  my  preserver  a  grateful 
glance. 

The  dancing  had  now  arrived  at  that  point  when  the 
survival  of  the  fittest  was  beginning  to  prevail.  The 
least  skilled  dancers,  blown  and  exhausted,  were  fanning 
themselves  with  their  hats,  and  the  skilled  contingent, 
cool  and  composed,  were  holding  the  floor  and  executing 
all  kinds  of  fancy  steps.  Jigs,  reels,  heel-an'-toe,  quick- 
steps, and  flings  were  patted  out  softly  and  gracefully 
on  the  hard  floor,  'mid  the  breathless  approval  of  all 
present. 

The  barefooted  maids,  who  were  so  busy  at  supper 
time,  were  now  footing  it  among  the  select  few,  their 
partners  being  two  of  the  rescued  fishermen,  who  were 
still  good-looking  and  young. 

"Back  with  th'  elbows,  make  ready  with  th'  jingle,  an' 
gie  us  th'  'Bells  o'  Galway,'  "  broke  from  the  piper,  who 
was  regarding  with  ecstasy  the  steps  of  the  four  past- 
masters  in  the  art  of  dancing. 

The  peal  of  bells  was  given  on  the  hard  floor  with 


EXCOMMUNICATED  131 

rhythmic  precision,  the  soft  pat  from  the  girls'  bare 
feet  making  a  musical  alternate  and  alto  plainly  under- 
stood by  those  who  ever  heard  the  chimes. 

At  this  point  the  fishermen  struck  in  the  chorus,  with 
pauses  for  the  peal,  something  like  this : 

"Ye  Galway  bells!     (Patter  of  jingling  feet) 
Ye  Galway  bells!     (Patter  of  jingling  feet) 

Far  o'er  the  waters  stealing. 
The  fisher  hears,    (Patter  of  jingling  feet) 
And  his  heart  cheers,   (Patter  of  jingling  feet) 

Your  tones  his  sorrow  healing. 

"Ye  Galway  bells!      (Patter  of  jingling  feet) 
Ye  Galway  bells!     (Patter  of  jingling  feet) 

Peal  on,  peal  on  forever. 
Your  music  sweet    (Patter  of  jingling  feet) 
Our  ears  shall  greet,    (Patter  of  jingling  feet) 

Oh,  may  we  miss  ye  never !" 

"Time  to  retire,"  said  Father  Tom,  on  the  threshold. 
"  Turn  in,  boys,  and  God  bless  you  all !  You  must 
manage  the  best  you  can  till  morning,  and  thank  Him 
who  saved  you  from  a  watery  grave.  Come,  sir,"  turning 
to  me,  "I  will  see  you  to  your  room.  It  may  not  be  as 
luxurious  as  you  have  been  accustomed  to;  but  such  as 
it  is,  you  are  welcome,  heartily  welcome." 

"Wait  till  I  get  me  shoes  on.  Arrah,  d'ye  want  to 
brin'  me  before  his  reverence  in  me  bare  feet  ?" 

"What  does  it  matther,  anyway?  'Tis  th'  ony  chance 
I  have  of  seein'  him.  I'll  have  to  be  away  in  th'  airly 
dawn.  Shure  ye'll  have  time  to  put  on  th'  shoes  before 
th'  weddin'." 

The  barefooted  maids  and  their  cavaliers,  into  whose 
hearts  they  had  danced,  were  blocking  up  the  way,  and 
the  priest  turned  a  puzzled  gaze  on  them. 

"Would  yer  reverence  plaze  to  marry  Kitty  an'  me,  as 


132       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

quick  as  ye  can — er — that  is,  as  soon  as  th'  banns  are 
published?"  asked  the  first,  bashfully. 

"An'  me,  yer  reverence,  Maureen  an'  me.  We've  made 
up  our  minds  to  get  marrit,  too,"  interrupted  the  second 
cavalier,  with  the  same  bashfulness. 

"Tut,  tut!"  said  Father  Tom,  with  energy.  "How 
long  have  you  known  this  young  man,  Kitty?" 

"Ony  to-night,  yer  reverence;  but  I  knew  all  his 
friends  an'  they're  all  dacent  people,  an'  he  has  seen  me 
so  many  times,"  said  the  girl,  biting  the  corner  of  her 
apron. 

"Ay,  that  I  have,  an'  I've  been  wantin'  to  speak  to  her 
a  long  time." 

"And  you,  Maureen,"  continued  the  priest,  "how  long 
have  you  known  this  young  man?" 

"  I  know  him  a  little — at  a  distance,  yer  reverence ;  but 
shure  he  never  put  th'  question  to  me  before  th'  night." 

"Well,  well!"  said  the  priest.  "If  you  are  determined 
to  get  married,  I'll  publish  the  banns  next  Sunday,  but 
be  sure  your  friends  are  satisfied." 

"I'm  not  satisfied,  fer  one,"  said  the  housekeeper,  who 
had  caught  a  hint  of  the  business  going  on  as  she  was 
busy  preparing  "shake-downs"  for  the  unexpected  guests. 
"'Tis  little  satisfaction  to  me  to  train  a  girl  into  my  way 
an'  then  lose  her,  jest  when  his  lordship  is  comin'  on  his 
veesitation,  an'  it's  vera  little  notice  I'm  gettin'." 

"Tut,  tut,  Jennie!  There's  a  host  of  other  colleens 
waiting  for  the  privilege  of  being  trained  by  you,  and 
you  might  as  well  try  to  stem  the  tide  as  to  keep  the  boys 
and  girls  from  getting  married  when  once  they've  made 
up  their  minds,'1  said  Father  Tom,  who  was  not  averse 
to  a  fee  from  two  such  open-hearted  looking  young  fel- 
lows. 


EXCOMMUNICATED  133 

"This  is  very  sudden,  Kitty,"  said  Miss  Eleanor,  aside, 
to  the  young  girl,  who  was  still  biting  bashfully  at  her 
apron.  "Are  you  sure,  quite  sure,  that  you  love  this 
young  man  well  enough  to  marry  him  ?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Eleanor,  I'm  quite  sure.  Mebbe  it's  sud- 
den; but  I  nor  ye  can't  understand  how  it  is,  an'  some 
day,"  she  whispered,  "ye  who  are  now  so  heart-free 
will  think  so,  too.  Someone  will  come  an'  yer  heart  will 
go  out  to  him,  an'  when  he  asks  ye,  ye  will  go  all  over 
th'  worl'  wi'  him." 

"Good-night,  Kitty,"  said  the  young  lady,  moving 
thoughtfully  away.  "Good-night;  you  can't  make  me 
believe  that." 

I  heard  all  this  from  the  nook  where  I  was  enjoying 
a  good-night  pipe  with  the  priest. 

My  dreams  were  few,  and  I  awoke  to  a  sense  of 
strangeness  in  my  surroundings.  There  was  a  pleasant 
saltness  in  the  air  coming  in  through  the  open  window 
that  caused  me  to  think,  in  my  half-awake  state,  that  I 
was  lying  in  the  cabin  of  an  ocean  steamer  and  expecting 
momentarily  to  hear  the  creaking  and  groaning  of  ma- 
chinery or  the  flapping  of  sails.  Shaking  off  my  drowsi- 
ness, I  sprang  from  my  couch  and  advanced  to  the  open 
window,  where  an  animated  scene  met  my  gaze.  Phoebus, 
in  his  fiery  chariot,  now  high  above  the  mountain  tops, 
was  chasing  the  morning  mists  over  the  vast  expanse  of 
the  Atlantic.  Some  fishermen  were  trimming  their  sails 
and  preparing  their  nets  for  their  day's  work;  others 
were  steering  their  frail  crafts  to  the  fishing-grounds. 
In  the  offing,  not  far  from  the  pier,  was  a  small  skiff, 
manned  by  my  ungainly  rescuer  of  the  three  hats,  and  a 
neat  figure  which  I  at  once  recognized  as  belonging  to 
Miss  Eleanor. 


134      FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Miss  Eleanor  and  Ned!"  I  ejaculated.  "And  why 
abroad  so  early  ?" 

The  young  lady  was  rowing  and  Ned  was  guarding 
something,  apparently  a  hamper,  at  the  other  side. 

I  met  her  at  the  breakfast-table  a  few  moments  later, 
and  when  I  began  to  compliment  her  on  her  morning 
trip,  she  glanced  furtively  in  the  direction  of  her  uncle 
and  passed  me  the  cakes.  Another  plunge  of  my  un- 
lucky tongue,  and  I  was  presented  with  the  trout.  By 
this  time  the  idea  occurred  to  me  that  her  morning  sail 
was  unknown  to  her  uncle  and  that  she  did  not  deem  it 
necessary  to  enlighten  him  on  the  subject.  I  dipped 
hastily  into  the  subject  of  mountain  lakes,  and  her  lady- 
ship looked  immensely  relieved. 

"We  have  the  greatest  trout  streams  in  the  world," 
said  Father  Tom.  "Eleanor  and  Ned  will  take  you  there 
after  breakfast,  if  you  are  fond  of  angling." 

I  said  nothing  suited  me  better,  but  I  thought  I  had 
given  sufficient  trouble  as  an  uninvited  guest. 

"  Tut,  tut,  man !  Are  you  waiting  for  an  invitation  ? 
Then  here  it  is.  Stay  as  long  as  you  wish,  and  make 
yourself  as  comfortable  as  you  can.  No  man  is  a  stranger 
in  Connemara  who  penetrates  into  our  wilds  with  an 
honest  heart  and  a  clear  conscience." 

While  thanking  him,  I  took  occasion  to  present  him 
with  my  credentials,  which  he  merely  glanced  at  and 
immediately  returned. 

"A  man's  face  is  a  sufficient  credential  as  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  but  written  ones  come  in  handy  sometimes. 
Come,  Eleanor,  show  this  gentleman  some  sport.  Ned, 
get  out  the  rods.  I  have  to  attend  to  some  matters  among 
my  parishioners  this  morning,"  he  continued  with  a  sigh, 


EXCOMMUNICATED  135 

"and  consequently  must  deny  myself  the  pleasure  of  ac- 
companying you." 

As  we  passed  down  the  long  street  that  constituted 
the  little  village  to  the  wharf,  the  inhabitants  gave  us 
many  a  kindly  greeting.  The  houses  were  low,  with  the 
exception  of  three, — the  priest's,  the  parson's,  and  the 
doctor's, — and  of  a  peculiar  circular  shape,  built  entirely 
of  gray  stone.  The  fish  wharf  was  at  the  end  of  the 
village,  but  few  fish  were  handled  there,  as  most  of  them 
were  merely  accounted  for  to  their  immediate  owners, 
sold  at  auction,  and  hurried  off  to  the  next  market-town 
to  be  distributed  to  huxters  whose  carts  were  in  readi- 
ness. 

"If  you  have  never  seen  the  'Gap,'  I  will  ask  you  to 
accompany  us  there.  No,  no,  not  where  you  were  yes- 
terday. That  gorge  was  terrific  and  uncanny ;  the  'Gap' 
is  terrific  but  beautiful,  most  beautiful.  It  is  just  an  inlet 
of  the  sea  reaching  far  up  into  the  country  and  hemmed 
in  at  each  side  by  precipitous  cliffs  and  wondrously 
wooded  hills,  and  beyond  these  again  by  the  shadow  of 
the  famous  Twelve  Pins,  sometimes  called  the  Irish  Alps. 
This  'Gap'  or  Pass  runs  from  bay  to  bay  as  it  extends  to 
a  renowned  lake  on  the  other  side.  Here  and  there,  where 
the  'Gap'  widens,  and  at  the  foot  of  these  mountains  lie 
smaller  lakes,  fairly  alive  with  the  loveliest  trout.  When 
we  seek  a  day's  sport,  we  tether  our  boat  in  the  'Gap' 
and  carry  our  little  'corrach,'  which  is  as  light  as  the 
proverbial  feather,  across  to  the  nearest  lake  and  fish 
away.  Ah,  Ned  hasn't  forgotten  the  'corrach,' "  she 
added,  as  he  entered  with  what  appeared  to  be  a  huge 
basket  covered  with  painted  canvas. 

"This  is  one  of  the  earliest  styles  of  boats  and  is  very 


136  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

useful  in  many  parts  of  the  rocky  coast,  as  it  cannot  be 
dashed  to  pieces  on  the  rocks,  and  a  rent  is  easily  repaired. 
It  is  little  used  now,  the  heavy  wooden  sail-boat  taking 
its  place,  but  I  think  there  is  nothing  like  it  for  trout 
fishing." 

While  we  were  speaking  we  were  sailing  out  of  the 
little  bay  into  the  open  sea  with  the  "corrach,"  which  was 
attached  to  the  larger  boat  by  a  long  rope  and  following 
the  swell  of  the  water  behind  us,  reminding  one  of  a 
young  colt  bound  for  the  county  fair  in  the  wake  of  his 
mother. 

Ned  and  the  young  lady  were  rowing,  because,  she 
claimed,  when  I  offered  my  services,  that  she  knew  the 
coast  better  than  I  possibly  could. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning,  and  the  slopes  of  the  prom- 
ontory we  were  rounding  were  clothed  to  the  water's 
edge  with  flowering  shrubs  that  almost  intoxicated  the 
senses  with  their  perfume.  An  hour's  sail,  and  we  had 
cleared  the  promontory  and  an  unimportant  inlet  or  two, 
and  were  entering  the  "Gap." 

Much  as  I  had  been  used  to  sublimity  and  beauty  in 
Connemara,  I  was  stunned  into  muteness  for  very  wonder. 
We  were  passing  through  what  appeared  to  me  to  be  a 
cleft  in  the  mountains,  the  rocky  sides  of  which  rose 
precipitously  and  often  in  columns,  like  the  walls  of  an 
immense  cathedral.  The  silence  and  solemnity  of  the 
place  added  to  the  impression.  The  silence  that  fell  on 
even  those  who  were  accustomed  to  see  this  wondrous 
piece  of  natural  architecture  was  sufficient  tribute  to  its 
beauty. 

In  silence  I  reached  for  the  oars,  and  my  fair  neighbor 
removed  her  heavy  rowing  gloves  and  cooled  her  shapely 


EXCOMMUNICATED  137 

hands  in  the  clear  water.  As  we  progressed,  the  shape 
of  the  mountains  varied,  the  sides  of  them  being  often 
covered  with  trees,  through  which  waterfalls  could  be 
seen  glistening  like  silver  as  they  tumbled  into  the  waters 
below.  The  mingled  perfume  of  the  gorse  and  the 
heather — so  characteristic  of  Connemara — the  beauty  of 
the  various  shades  of  color  arising  from  the  wild  flowers, 
the  waterfalls,  the  rocks  and  the  ever-changing  sea,  the 
song  of  the  birds  overhead,  with  the  hoarse  croak  of  the 
sea-gull  subdued  by  distance,  were  like  the  unreal  inci- 
dents in  a  dream,  and  I  feared  to  awaken.  The  sound 
of  carriage  wheels  on  the  road  high  above  us  carried 
me  back  to  the  realities  of  life. 

"This  'Gap'  is  a  short  cut  by  land  or  sea,"  I  remarked. 

"Yes,  we  have  several  mountain  passes  in  Connemara. 
The  Kylemore,  about  four  miles  the  other  way,  is  second 
to  none  in  beauty.  Each  pass  is  legend-haunted,  and  so 
also  are  our  lakes  and  rivers.  This  'Gap'  leads  to  the 
Salruc  Pass  (literally,  Saint  Rock),  and  memorializes  a 
spirited  contest  between  the  devil  and  a  saint  whose  repu- 
tation for  sanctity  had  greatly  annoyed  him.  The  story 
says  that  the  saint,  who  had  hidden  himself  away  from 
the  temptations  of  a  sinful  world  in  one  of  the  huge 
caves  for  which  the  mountains  are  noted,  was  attacked 
by  Satan  on  a  frosty  night  while  asleep.  Satan  suc- 
ceeded in  throwing  a  chain  over  him,  but  was  unable  to 
remain  to  secure  him  on  account  of  the  cross  which  the 
saint  carried.  He  accordingly  retired  to  the  other  side 
of  the  mountain,  still  holding  on  to  the  chain.  The 
struggle  for  mastery  lasted  all  night,  for  though  the 
saint  was  caught  napping,  he  did  not  propose  to  give  up 
without  a  hard  fight.  In  the  morning  the  devil  was 


138  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

forced  to  go,  leaving  the  saint  the  master  of  the  field, 
but  very  much  exhausted.  The  friction  of  the  chain, 
however,  had  cleft  the  mountain  in  twain,  and  the  saint 
had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  a  short  cut  for  the  people 
from  the  lakes  to  the  coast." 

The  mountains,  which  were  ever  varying  in  shape  and 
color,  now  became  precipitous  again,  till  their  shadows 
almost  darkened  the  pass. 

"A  very  pretty  story,  Miss  Eleanor,  of  a  place  which 
is  very  beautiful  in  spite  of  its  precipices,  and  just  what 
would  be  selected  by  a  saint " 

"Or  an  outlaw,"  interrupted  the  young  lady,  quietly. 

"An  outlaw?" 

"Yes;' we  were  all  outlaws  once,  or  our  ancestors  were, 
which  means  the  same.  These  mountains  were  full  of 
tenants  then,  who  found  it  impossible  to  endure  the  cruel 
laws.  They  were  not  looked  upon  as  outlaws  here,  how- 
ever, so  long  as  they  confined  their  depredations  to  the 
wild  deer,  or  the  wild  duck  or  salmon.  The  English 
soldiery  were  afraid  to  cross  the  'bays  of  the  sea'  and 
run  the  risk  of  getting  lost  in  the  bridle-roads  of  the 
'Kingdom  of  Connemara.'  Now,  alas!  the  bridle-roads 
have  developed  into  military  roads,  but  the  caves  still 
remain  and  only  a  favored  few  are  acquainted  with  their 
entrances  or  their  exits." 

"But  you  are  too  gentle  to  consort  with  outlaws,  Miss 
Eleanor." 

I  spoke  inanely,  just  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing  her 
voice  and  watching  the  play  of  expression  on  her  bright 
face. 

"And  yet  I  am  related  to  and  descended  from  the 
O'Neills,  the  O'Sullivans,  and  the  O'Flahertys,  from 


EXCOMMUNICATED  139 

whose  ferocious  assaults  the  English  prayed  the  Lord 
to  deliver  them.  See,  the  ruins  of  Lady  Bivinda  O'Fla- 
herty  De  Burgo's  castle,  in  which  she  confined  herself 
with  her  orphaned  child  and  a  number  of  armed  fol- 
lowers, appealing  to  'her  most  gracious  sovereign,  Eliza- 
beth of  England,'  to  sanction  her  proceedings  until  her 
daughter  should  reach  her  majority.  This  cowardly 
act  drew  down  on  her  the  scorn  of  her  husband's  family, 
who  dubbed  the  fortress,  'Castleen-na-Circe' — literally, 
the  'Castle  of  the  Hen.'  This  petition  is  signed  with  her 
maiden  name,  O'Flaherty,  as  being  more  powerful  than 
the  De  Burgo's,  and  is  still  extant.  Her  daughter  mar- 
ried Sir  Thomas  Blake  of  Menlo  Castle,  and  their 
descendants  are  still  here.  The  last  of  the  O'Flahertys 
is  a  very  quiet  gentleman  and  a  large  landed  proprietor. 
He  has  refused  a  title  from  the  present  sovereign  of 
England,  and  divides  his  time  between  London  and  his 
estate." 

The  mantle  of  silence  fell  over  us  again  as  we  slowly 
rowed  past  a  combination  of  sea  glories  that  baffles  de- 
scription. Looking  back  through  the  "Gap"  we  had 
traversed  where  it  opened  into  the  Atlantic,  we  could  see 
the  glorious  island  of  Inistura,  which  seemed  to  lie  close 
to  the  entrance  of  the  "Gap,"  thus  giving  it  the  appear- 
ance of  a  lake.  Far  away  lay  the  most  distant  islands, 
and  a  few  faint  specks  on  the  horizon  indicated  the  sails 
of  boats  going  out  to  the  fishing  grounds. 

"We  can  get  through  this  opening,"  said  the  young 
lady,  indicating  what  appeared  to  me  to  be  a  fissure  in 
the  rocks,  "and  get  to  a  mountain  stream  for  the  trout  I 
spoke  of.  We  will  tie  the  boat  here  and  carry  our  'cor- 
rach.'  It  is  not  far." 


140  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

For  the  first  time  in  our  short  acquaintance,  Ned 
seemed  deaf  to  the  demands  of  his  fair  mistress.  He  was 
busy  munching  away  at  what  seemed  to  be  the  large 
end  of  a  loaf,  which  he  held  to  his  mouth  with  both  hands. 

"Poor  Ned  is  hungry,"  added  the  girl,  smiling.  "This 
saunter  on  the  open  sea  gives  one  a  glorious  appetite,  I 
must  remember.  The  housekeeper  has  packed  us  a  lunch 
which  will  agree  beautifully  with  the  trout  that  Ned 
will  cook  for  us  by  and  by.  Ned  is  a  grand  open-air 
cook,  and  we  must  hurry  up." 

Ned  finished  his  lunch  in  an  incredibly  short  time  and 
was  now  busy  making  a  selection  from  a  small  heap  of 
stones  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

"Never  mind  the  stone,"  said  Miss  Eleanor. 

"I  want  to  see  th'  faces  in  th'  wather,"  said  Ned. 

"Yes,  yes,  by  and  by,  when  we  return.  We  must  bring 
this  gentleman  to  the  lake  to  fish." 

"No,  no!"  cried  the  simpleton;  "I  want  to  show  th' 
gen'man  th'  people  in  th'  wather." 

"  Indeed !  Then  your  rivers  and  lakes  are  peopled, 
too?"  I  inquired. 

For  answer  Miss  Eleanor  quoted : 

"Ye  spectres  pale,  who  lie  below  and  dwell  in  sheltered  places, 

O,  stay  your  coral  caves  among,  nor  show  your  shadowy  faces ! 

For  woe  betide  the  luckless  wight  who  sees  the  vision  splendid, 

For  him  the  hearth-light  burns  in  vain,   for  him  this  life  is 

ended." 

"Well,  I  don't  wish  to  die  just  yet.  I  must  ask  Ned 
to  reserve  his  power." 

"The  apparition  here  is  quite  harmless.  No  evil  ef- 
fects follow,"  she  said. 

"I  jest  tro  a  white  stone  in  th'  wather,"  said  Ned,  "an' 
dat's  all." 


EXCOMMUNICATED  141 

"Well,  the  gentleman  doesn't  wish  you  to  throw  the 
stone,"  said  the  girl,  with,  I  thought,  unnecessary  stern- 
ness. 

"Ned  seems  to  be  exempt  from  the  penalty.  He 
evokes  the  spectres  at  pleasure,"  I  rejoined. 

"  True,  but  Ned  is  a  privileged  character.  Nothing  can 
hurt  him,"  she  assented ;  but  her  smile  was  not  as  bright 
as  usual. 

Splash,  splash! 

Miss  Eleanor's  face  became  very  pale. 

"I  couldn't  help  it,  Miss  Eleanor;  th'  stones  jest  slipped 
out  o'  me  hand,  so  dey  did." 

I  looked  over  the  side  of  the  boat.  The  eddies  evoked 
by  the  stones  were  moving  in  ever-widening  circles. 
There  was  a  fascination  in  watching  them.  I  drew  back 
in  involuntary  terror,  for  in  the  center  of  the  circle  was 
a  face — yes,  a  succession  of  faces,  or  maybe  the  same  face 
multiplied  many  times.  It  was  the  reflection  of  a 
woman's  face,  or  the  reflection  of  a  number  of  women's 
faces,  but  so  like,  so  very  like. 

"Dere  she  is!"  called  Ned,  excitedly,  and  pointing  to 
the  water;  "dere  she  is,  an'  she's  becknin'  to  me!  She 
wants  me!  She  wants  me!" 

"As  Ned  is  exempt  from  the  consequences  of  his  rash 
act,  I  must  be  the  one  wanted,"  I  said,  with  a  smile,  but 
I'm  afraid  it  was  somewhat  forced. 

Miss  Eleanor  was  sitting  up  stiffly,  her  eyes  on  the  cliff, 
the  expression  of  her  face  one  of  tender  pity.  Having 
ears,  she  heard  not;  having  eyes,  she  saw  not. 

"She  wants  me!"  said  Ned.  "See,  Miss  Eleanor,  she 
wants  me !" 

A  nervous  thrill  coursed  down  my  spinal  column. 
What  mystery  was  this  ? 


142       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"She  wants  me !  She  wants  me !"  repeated  Ned,  fran- 
tically. 

"Well,  you  must  go,  Ned,  but  be  careful,"  answered 
the  young  lady,  without  taking  her  eyes  from  the  cliff. 
She  had  evidently  forgotten  all  about  me. 

"I'll  row  de  boat  to  de  point,"  said  Ned,  taking  up  the 
oars  eagerly. 

The  girl  seemed  to  remember  me  with  a  start. 

"I  didn't  intend  this,"  she  said.  "We  will  have  to  delay 
a  little,  but  it  can't  be  helped  now." 

"And  the  faces  in  the  water?" 

"Oh,  just  one  face!  It  is  the  face  of  an  outlaw — a 
gentle  outlaw,  God  pity  her,  but  still  an  outlaw." 

"And  she  lives " 

"In  the  cave  in  the  cliff  above — that's  as  near  as  we 
can  get  to  her.  We — Ned  and  I — come  with  a  few  deli- 
cacies and  books." 

"And  the  stone  he  threw  into  the  water?" 

"It's  our  signal.  It  brings  her  to  the  opening  of  the 
cave  under  that  ledge  on  the  cliff,  where  her  shadow  can 
be  plainly  thrown  on  the  water.  The  formation  of  the 
cave  is  so  peculiar  that  she  sees  everything  for  miles 
around  without  herself  being  visible,  and  her  reflection  on 
the  water  would  be  perfectly  unaccountable  to  any  one  not 
in  the  secret  of  the  cave.  We  never  use  a  signal  when  ac- 
companied by  any  one,  and  she  never  answers  it  unless  in 
urgent  need." 

"Then  the  mysterious  people  in  your  other  lakes  here 
can  probably  be  accounted  for  just  as  naturally?" 

The  lady  shook  her  head.  "Whole  cities  and  an  im- 
mense concourse  of  people  are  often  seen  in  Lough  Corrib 
and  Lough  Inagh,  and  so  far  they  have  never  been  ac- 


EXCOMMUNICATED  143 

counted  for,  neither  has  the  person  seeing  them  lived 
long." 

Her  face  grew  troubled  as  she  stopped  abruptly.  A 
rope  was  hanging  over  the  cliff  and  Ned,  with  packages 
and  books  suspended  from  his  waist  and  shoulders,  was 
preparing  to  ascend. 

"The  existence  of  this  cave  has  been  previously  known 
only  to  three  persons,"  said  Miss  Eleanor. 

"And  I  hope  you  will  consider  that  the  fourth,  who  has 
learned  the  secret  by  accident,  is  honorable  enough  to  con- 
ceal his  knowledge." 

Her  face  grew  clear  again.  "Thank  you,  but  I  might 
have  known  that." 

Ned  was  climbing  the  cliff  like  a  goat,  using  the  rope 
as  a  hand-rail.  I  looked  on  till  I  was  dizzy,  then  shaded 
my  eyes  and  scanned  the  river  anxiously.  Nothing  was 
visible  in  its  clear  depths  but  the  shadows  of  the  rocks  and 
the  gently  moving  branches  of  the  trees. 

"It  is  only  common  justice  to  the  poor  woman  above  to 
tell  you,  a  stranger,  that  her  case  is  not  so  bad — at  least 
in  some  people's  eyes— as  you  perhaps  think,"  said  the 
young  girl,  disconnectedly,  and  still  watching  the  ascent 
of  her  henchman. 

"Your  friendship  for  her  shows  me  that." 

"If  you  only  knew  her  story!" 

"I  know  she  is  your  friend,  that  is  enough." 

"Yes,  I  am  her  namesake.  She  is  my  relative,  too—- 
distant, third  or  fourth  cousin,  but  of  the  same  blood. 
She  is  ostracized  by  society  and  the  Church — in  fact,  ex- 
communicated by  the  Church." 

"Excommunicated  by  the  Church?" 

"Yes;  that  is  the  hardest  of  all,  in  Connemara." 
10 


144  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Who  excommunicated  her?" 

"The  Bishop.  She  was  so  prominent,  you  know,  that 
it  was  quite  a  scandal ;  and  my  uncle,  Father  Tom,  was 
obliged  to  comply  with  the  edict  of  his  superior,  but  it 
was  hard." 

"You  have  not  yet  told  me  her  story.  Perhaps  I  might 
suggest  something." 

"No,  no;  nothing  that  you  could  do,  nothing  that  any- 
body could  do,  would  change  matters.  She  will  never 
give  him  up." 

"Pardon  me,  give  up  whom?    Her  husband?" 

"Yes;  she  thought  he  was  her  husband — she  was  mar- 
ried by  the  Bishop — till  another  woman  found  her  way 
into  her  presence  and  claimed  him." 

Here  the  sight  of  Ned,  revolving  in  mid-air  like  a  tee- 
totum, with  the  rope  as  a  centerpiece  and  the  suspended 
packages  flying  around  him,  made  her  forget  her  story. 

"He  won't  fall,"  I  said,  reading  her  thoughts.  "He 
carried  me  down  Bena-y-Vricaan  yesterday,  and  that  is 
almost  as  steep." 

"Oh,  he's  just  amusing  himself  a  little,  not  thinking  it 
would  irritate  me.  He  is  very  loyal  to  his  friends.  On 
those  he  dislikes  he  often  plays  some  queer  tricks,  so 
queer  and  so  telling  that  many  people  believe  they  orig- 
inate in  a  fund  of  common  sense,  cleverly  concealed  on 
ordinary  occasions." 

"He  evidently  has  no  fear,"  I  said,  venturing  to  look 
again  at  the  giddy  spectacle,  when  I  was  instantly  re- 
minded of  a  Chinese  juggler  doing  the  wheel  act.  "If 
the  rope  only  holds  out !" 

"If  it  doesn't,  he  will  be  killed,  poor  fellow,  and  I  will 
have  lost  my  last  chance  to  communicate  with  my  unfor- 
tunate friend." 


EXCOMMUNICATED  145 

"Then  there  is  no  other  entrance  to — to — her  abode?" 

"  Yes.  About  eight  miles — eight  Irish  miles  are  equiva- 
lent to  at  least  twelve  English — on  the  road  that  runs 
along  the  ma'am  between  Clifden  and  Delphi,  stands  a 
lonely  cottage.  It  is  more  pretentious  than  the  or- 
dinary mountain  cabin  and  is  built  onto  the  mountain. 
That  mountain  is  really  the  back  of  this  precipice,  though 
it  sinks  and  falls  a  little  by  the  way.  Under  it  all  runs  a 
wide  passage,  terminating  in  this  cave.  It  was  used  in 
the  past  by  illicit  distillers,  who  found  the  cave  a  grand 
place  to  rid  themselves  of  their  merchandise." 

I  imagined  Ned  in  the  position  of  a  keg  of  poteen  on  its 
way  to  the  boats.  He  had  just  finished  his  gyrations  and 
was  continuing  his  ascent.  Miss  Eleanor  breathed  freer. 

"This  delay  is  most  annoying,"  she  muttered.  "Our 
long  stay  under  this  cliff  might  draw  attention.  Will  you 
watch  for  anyone  in  sight  ?  Ah  !" 

There  they  were,  moving  softly  along  on  the  narrow 
path,  the  mountain  ponies  carrying  their  burdens  patiently 
but  surely  toward  us.  The  burdens  consisted  of  a  tourist 
painter  in  sombrero  and  linen  coat,  a  guide  laden  with  his 
easel  and  paraphernalia,  and  two  women  who,  judging  by 
the  dress,  were  a  "lady"  and  her  maid. 

The  artist  and  the  lady  were  conversing  in  loud  tones, 
and  every  word  of  their  conversation  was  echoed  back 
from  the  rocks  and  borne  to  us  on  the  clear  air. 

"They're  here  somewhere,"  said  the  woman  in  the  rich 
dress.  "I'm  sure  of  that,  for  every  other  place  but  Con- 
nemara  has  been  searched ;  and  I'll  make  an  affidavit  that 
I'll  find  them,  if  I  have  to  stay  here  in  this  wild  place  for 
a  year." 

"It's  a  beautiful  place,  sister  Mary,  and  I  for  one  will 


146       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

never  find  fault.  I  will  make  sketches  of  these  delightful 
rocks." 

"And  you  must  write  the  word  'rocks'  under  them,  lest 
they  be  mistaken  for  groups  of  cows,"  interrupted  the 
lady.  "Bah!  you  will  never  make  an  artist,  and  all  the 
money  I  spent  on  you." 

"You're  in  a  bad  humor,  sister  Mary,"  returned  the 
artist,  amiably.  "But  when  the  money  comes " 

"Who  says  money?"  returned  the  lady.  "It's  a  year 
since  I  received  a  draft.  He  has  the  money,  and  if  he 
hasn't,  his  friends  have.  There's  a  big  legacy  coming 
from  her  old  aunt,  Lady  Betty  O'Hagan,  who,  when  they 
decided  the  case  in  my  favor,  made  a  will  leaving  every- 
thing to  the  insane  asylum.  She  changed  her  mind  last 
week,  turned  everything  over  again  to  her  beloved  niece 
and  then  died.  Very  good.  What's  hers  is  his,  and 
what's  his  is  mine.  It  will  take  a  goodly  slice  of  her 
aunt's  legacy  to  insure  my  silence  this  time,  and  the  war- 
rant hanging  over  him  for  bigamy." 

"And  what  will  be  your  choice  of  a  dwelling-place, 
after  you  have  settled  the  money  question,  sister  mine?" 

"Connemara,  of  course,"  said  the  lady,  with  a  mock- 
ing laugh;  "just  for  a  sight  of  his  pale  face  and  a  whiff 
of  the  invigoratin'  'say  breeze,'  as  the  natives  express  it. 
No,  no ;  with  the  money  handy,  Dublin  or  London  is  good 
enough  for  me.  I  never  cared  a  straw  for  the  fellow 
outside  of  the  money." 

"Hush !"  said  the  man,  with  a  glance  in  the  direction  of 
their  attendants. 

"Nonsense;  those  people  know  nothing  but  Gaelic,  out- 
side of  a  few  necessary  phrases,  and  they  are  as  thick  in 
the  skulls  as  the  rest  of  the  Connemara  simpletons." 


EXCOMMUNICATED  147 

Miss  Eleanor  was  engineering  her  little  bark  into  the 
shelter  of  a  group  of  low,  overhanging  bushes  that  almost 
concealed  a  little  inlet.  She  was  trembling  in  her  eager- 
ness to  get  out  of  sight. 

"Get  out  your  rod,"  she  whispered,  "and  fish  diligently. 
This  is  the  woman  I  told  you  of,  the  woman  that  beautiful 
and  cultured  Eleanor  O'Gorman  has  been  sacrificed  to." 

"Then  her  husband  really  married  that  woman?" 

"  So  the  law  decided.  It  was  a  boyish  indiscretion,  com- 
mitted while  a  student  in  Trinity.  He  went  through  what 
he  considered  a  mock  ceremony  with  this  coarse  woman 
during  a  college  lark.  He  never  mentioned  the  matter 
on  his  return  home.  He  met  Eleanor,  who  was  queening 
it  in  Dublin,  fell  in  love  with  her — who  wouldn't  ?" 

"Who  wouldn't?"  I  repeated,  unconsciously,  looking 
at  the  fair  face  beside  me. 

"He  followed  her  to  Connemara  and  married  her.  Oh, 
it  was  a  beautiful  wedding!"  resumed  the  girl,  ignoring 
my  interruption ;  "  for  her  father  belonged  to  a  branch  of 
the  family  who  succeeded  in  retaining  some  of  their  old 
possessions  in  spite  of  the  English  laws,  and  no  money 
was  spared.  I  was  her  pet  and  her  youngest  bridesmaid, 
and  strewed  flowers  in  her  path.  That's  thirteen  years 
ago.  They  spent  three  years  of  happiness.  He  met  this 
woman  face  to  face  in  Dublin,  and  then  the  crash  came. 
She  knew  him  at  once,  though  he  had  married  her  under 
a  different  name,  but  that  makes  no  difference  in  the  law. 
He  gave  her  money  to  silence  her,  not  really  believing  that 
she  had  any  claim  on  him.  He  wanted  to  keep  the 
wretched  secret  from  his  wife.  Finding  her  insatiable  in 
her  greed  for  money,  he  dared  her  to  do  her  worst.  She 
did.  She  followed  them  to  their  summer  seat  in  Conne- 


148  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

mara  and  denounced  them  before  the  virtuous  people  of 
the  coast.  She  followed  them  everywhere,  to  the  church, 
to  the  beach,  to  the  dinner-table  and  to  the  dinner-tables  of 
their  neighbors.  No  one  really  believed  she  was  his  wife, 
but  it  made  lots  of  talk.  Finally  she  dragged  him  through 
the  courts,  and  with  the  aid  of  an  eloquent  lawyer,  got 
placed  before  the  world  as  a  martyr  and  her  claim  ad- 
mitted. When  the  law  decided,  then  the  Church  acted. 
If  the  Dublin  woman  was  the  wife  of  Richard  Ward,  then 
Eleanor  O'Gorman  was  not.  It  was  hard  to  part  a  couple 
who  were  so  devoted  to  one  another.  She  refused  to  take 
that  decision  as  final,  and  spent  her  dowry  in  another  suit. 
The  first  decision  was  confirmed,  and  when  her  husband, 
broken  in  health,  returned  to  her,  she  did  not  send  him 
away.  The  excommunication  broke  her  heart,  but  she 
bore  it  and  clung  to  him.  Not  only  was  society  closed  to 
her,  but,  what  she  felt  far  more,  the  doors  of  the  churches. 
She  could  not  hear  Mass,  nor  hold  any  communion  with 
anyone.  The  people  who  loved  her  for  her  father's  sake, 
shunned  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  leper.  No  one  came 
into  their  presence  but  the  woman — his  wife.  To  rid 
themselves  of  her  presence,  they  gave  her  all  they  could 
spare." 

"Did  your  uncle  forbid  her  the  church?" 

"No;  she  spared  him  that  sorrow.  She  knelt  in  her 
doorway  with  her  face  toward  the  chapel  as  the  Mass  was 
read,  but  she  never  dared  to  enter." 

"Why  did  they  not  go  where  their  story  was  not 
known  ?" 

"It  is  hard  for  those  who  have  been  born  among  the 
hills  to  forget  them ;  besides,  their  money  was  nearly  all 
gone.  When  the  woman's  allowance  was  paid,  according 


EXCOMMUNICATED  149 

to  law,  there  was  hardly  enough  left  to  keep  body  and 
soul  together.  Suddenly  they  disappeared,  and  only 
three  knew  their  hiding-place.  But  three  persons  knew 
that  behind  that  ledge  of  rock,  on  each  Sunday  of  the 
year,  a  woman,  the  last  of  the  old  stock,  joined  in  their 
prayers." 

"But  did  you  not  call  at  the  cottage  on  the  roadside, 
and  see  your  friends?" 

"No  communication  is  allowed  in  such  cases,  and  she 
loved  me  too  well  to  place  me  under  a  ban." 

"Suppose  they — these  people — go  around  the  road 
eight  miles  away,  who's  to  hinder  them  from  discovering 
your  friend  and  her  sick  husband?" 

"They  will  find  an  old  woman,  who  speaks  only' 
Gaelic  and  is  as  deaf,  apparently,  as  a  post.  They  will 
find  no  evidence  of  refinement  or  even  comfort,  for  the 
little  that  Eleanor  allows  herself  is  surrounding  the 
man  she  loves  so  dearly  in  the  cave,  and  the  entrance 
to  the  cave  from  the  cottage  is  so  artfully  concealed 
that  without  help  it  would  be  impossible  to  find.  This 
old  woman  is  Eleanor's  old  nurse  and  faithful  servant, 
who  would  gladly  lay  down  her  life  for  her  nursling. 
She  is  supposed  to  be  supported  by  a  wealthy  son  in 
America,  and  so  far  has  evaded  suspicion." 

The  tourists  were  almost  abreast  of  us  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river. 

"The  rope!"  said  Eleanor.  "The  rope!  It  is  hang- 
ing over  the  cliff!  Ned  has  been  used  to  draw  it  up 
after  him.  There  must  be  something  amiss.  Eleanor 
would  never  have  neglected " 

Ah!  Ned  was  descending  much  more  rapidly  than 
he  ascended,  but  not  half  rapid  enough  for  the  young 


150       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

girl  in  the  boat.  Her  breath  came  in  short  gasps. 
What  if  they  should  look  across?  What  if  the  poor 
simpleton  should  try  his  hand  at  another  wheel?  What 
if  he  should — heavens!  They  were  right  opposite! 
Ned  had  got  low  enough  to  be  hidden  by  the  branches 
of  the  trees  that  overhung  the  river,  but  the  rope  still 
dangled.  What  if  they  should  see  it?  Suddenly  the 
party  glanced  across  and  saw  us.  We  were  a  disagree- 
able surprise  to  the  lady,  evidently,  for  she  frowned,  at 
the  memory  of  her  incautious  words,  perhaps.  They 
stopped. 

"If  they  address  us,  remember  we  are  supposed  to 
know  only  Gaelic."  Eleanor  spoke  through  her  teeth  and 
without  raising  her  eyes.  "We  are  just  stupid  Connemara 
clowns,  you  know.  If  we  answer  them  in  English,  they 
will  linger  and  draw  their  own  conclusions." 

"But  I  don't  know  Gaelic,"  I  said,  in  the  same  un- 
dertone. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do!  A  few  words  in  any  language  but 
their  own  will  be  looked  upon  as  Gaelic  by  that  woman 
and  her  brother." 

I  went  through  my  memory  rapidly  for  a  couplet 
from  Homer,  or  a  chanson  of  Rousseau.  My  memory 
immediately  became  a  blank.  Was  I  going  to  disgrace 
myself  before  Eleanor,  who  I  could  see  was  quite  eru- 
dite? 

"We  are  looking  for  a  gentleman  named  Ward," 
shouted  the  man.  "These  stupid  servants  know  noth- 
ing about  him,  but  we  were  told  he  lives  around  here." 
The  words  came  distinctly  through  the  clear  air. 

"Boni  sapientesque  ex  civitate  pelluntur,"  I  respond- 
ed, wildly  recalling  a  Latin  lesson  of  my  school-days. 


EXCOMMUNICATED  151 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  they  knew  nothing  but  Gaelic?" 
said  the  lady,  scornfully. 

"He  looks  intelligent  and  dresses  like  a  Yankee,"  said 
her  brother,  amiably;  adding,  "but  washy  looking  and 
a  poor  specimen  of  a  mountaineer." 

"Try  him  again — easy  words,  slow  and  easy.  Maybe 
we  could  instil  some  knowledge  into  him,"  said  the  lady. 

"Can — you — tell  —  us  —  anything  —  about — a — gen- 
tleman— named — Ward?"  He  enunciated  the  words 
slowly,  to  suit  my  comprehension. 

"Praeterita  mutare  non  possumus,"  I  replied,  sav- 
agely, still  drawing  on  the  memory  of  my  school-days. 
It  hurt  me  to  think  that  a  man  should  pass  such  re- 
marks, though  I  didn't  mind  their  being  overheard  by 
my  fair  neighbor.  Oh,  no;  not  at  all!  My  fair  neigh- 
bor, however,  never  raised  her  eyes.  She  was  fishing 
diligently,  and  apparently  dead  to  everything  else. 

"What  a  stupid  pair!"  said  the  lady.  "Neither  knows 
a  word  of  English." 

"The  girl  is  lovely,  though,"  returned  the  man,  "and 
the  man  looks  remarkably  like  the  Yankees  we  met  in 
Dublin.  It  is  most  astonishing." 

"He  has  been  long  enough  in  America  to  return  with 
a  suit  of  clothes  and  the  dyspepsia,"  said  his  sister,  acid- 
ly; "and  as  for  the  girl  being  pretty,  well,  her  nose  is 
much  too  long  and  her  color  is  too  high." 

It  could  not  be  denied  that  Eleanor's  color  was  high 
at  present. 

"Nonsense!"  answered  the  man.  "She  is  a  perfect 
Juno.  Look  at  that  magnificent  hair  and  that  curve  in 
her  throat.  How  I  would  like  to  sketch  her!  I  think 
I  will  stay  around  and  take  lessons  in  Gaelic  just  for 
the  pleasure  of  making  love  to  her." 


152  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

Here  the  lady  held  a  conversation  with  the  guide.  He 
could  tell  her  the  name  of  the  next  hotel  and  how  dis- 
tant it  was,  the  name  of  every  mountain  and  rock  in  the 
neighborhood,  like  a  boy  reciting  a  lesson ;  but  he  broke 
down  and  became  unintelligible  and  at  last  completely 
lost  in  a  labyrinth  of  Gaelic  and  English  words,  thrown 
together  promiscuously  and  going  off  like  a  bunch  of 
fire-crackers  on  a  rainy  day,  when  asked  about  a  gentle- 
man and  lady  named  Ward. 

Oh,  yes;  he  knew  every  gentleman,  wealthy  and  an- 
cient, in  the  neighborhood- — the  O'Donnels,  the  O'Gor- 
mans,  the  Martyns,  but  no  Ward,  he  acknowledged  at 
last.  The  O'Gormans  were  all  dead  and  the  estate 
hopelessly  involved,  was  the  gist  of  his  remarks,  but  no 
one  by  the  name  of  Ward. 

"It's  no  use  talking  to  these  stupid  people,"  said  the 
lady.  "The  proprietor  of  the  hotel  may  be  able  to  tell 
us  something.  Come  on!" 

Just  then  Ned  came  into  view.  He  had  swum  quietly 
across  the  "Gap."  She  stopped  in  her  speech  to  exam- 
ine him,  as  he  shook  himself  and  adjusted  his  head-gear, 
and  wrung  out  the  tail  of  his  coat. 

"Here's  another  of  them,"  she  said,  "a  perfect  figure 
of  fun.  He's  the  oddest-looking  creature  I  ever  met  in 
my  life." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Ned. 

"Oh,  he  knows  English!  Well,  I  wonder  if  he  can 
give  us  any  news." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Ned. 

"Oh,  you  can?"  The  lady  turned  to  him  quite  un- 
abashed. "Then  maybe  you  could  direct  us  to  the  resi- 
dence of  a — a — gentleman  named  Ward  and — his — wife. 


EXCOMMUNICATED  153 

They  are  living  somewhere  in  retirement,  probably  in 
this  very  neighborhood." 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"Will  you  guide  us  to  them?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"If  you  do,  I'll  give  you  a  shilling,  my  man." 

"A  whole  shillin' — not  sixpence — a  whole  shillin'?" 
Ned  was  all  excitement. 

"A  whole  shilling,  yes,  indeed!"  She  exhibited  a 
bright,  new  coin.  "Will  you  take  us  there  at  once?" 

"Yes,  ma'am."  Ned  trotted  off  ahead  of  the  party, 
after  giving  a  preliminary  twist  in  the  vicinity  of  his 
waist,  which  proceeding  brought  his  ankles  and  three 
inches  above  them  into  view.  This  was  a  prelude  to  a 
long  day's  walk.  Miss  Eleanor  was  thunderstruck.  She 
watched  the  retreating  figure  of  her  henchman  with  eyes 
in  which  horror  and  intense  surprise  were  strangely  min- 
gled. 

"I  never  saw  Ned  do  that  before,"  she  cried,  in  tears. 
"It  was  the  shilling,  the  bright,  new  shilling.  There  is 
always  a  terrible  temptation  to  him  about  a  bright,  new 
shilling,  though  it  never  made  him  treacherous  before. 
Oh!" 

"How  much  does  he  know?" 

"I  don't  know.  He  has  lucid  moments  occasionally, 
I  think." 

"Can  he  bring  them  to  the  cottage?" 

"I  cannot  say.  Oh,  what  is  to  be  done?  The  rope 
is  still  hanging  over  the  cliff.  Something  is  wrong.  It 
is  the  first  time  it  was  allowed  to  stay  a  moment  after 
use.  Something  has  gone  wrong." 

"What  is  this?"     I   showed  her  a  paper   Ned  had 


154  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

dropped  at  our  feet  before  he  crossed  the  river.  "  It  may 
enlighten  us,"  I  said. 

"It's  a  note — a  note  from  my  poor  friend.  Oh,  my 
fears  were  correct.  Something  has  happened !" 

"  'She  is  dying.  Richard  died  last  night.  I  waited  at 
the  mouth  of  the  cave,  praying  for  the  Lord  to  send  some 
one.  He  has  heard  my  prayer.  For  God's  sake,  send 
some  priest '  " 

"The  rest  is  unintelligible.  The  scrawl  has  evidently 
been  written  by  Mary,  the  old  nurse,  faithful  to  the  end. 
It  was  her  face  that  was  reflected  on  the  water,  but  I 
was  so  angry  with  Ned  that  I  did  not  stop  to  think.  Oh, 
if  we  could  only  get  some  priest,  surely  he  would  not  be 
so  cruel  as  to  refuse  her!" 

"No  one  would  refuse,"  I  said,  to  comfort  her,  for 
she  spoke  aloud;  "but  can  a  priest  reach  her?  Eight 
miles  is  a  long  way,  and  no  one  but  Ned  can  climb  that 
cliff." 

She  wrung  her  hands.  "Can  I  be  of  service?"  I 
spoke  more  from  a  desire  to  calm  her,  than  a  surety  that 
my  services  would  be  of  any  use. 

"No,  no;  we  would  have  to  go  back  and  get  a  con- 
veyance and  a  guide,  for  I  would  not  be  sure  of  the 
way.  Oh,  if  I  could  only  reach  her  some  way !  Surely 
God,  who  is  mindful  of  even  the  sparrow's  fall,  will  not 
let  her  die  alone,  and  without  the  consolations  of  the  re- 
ligion she  loves  so  well !  If  she  has  disobeyed  the  law, 
she  has  suffered." 

"Do  not  distress  yourself,  my  dear  young  lady,"  I 
ventured.  "God  is  just.  It  would  have  been  a  heart- 
less thing  of  her  to  desert  a  sick  man.  Who  will  dare 
to  say  she  has  done  wrong?" 


EXCOMMUNICATED  155 

"Oh,  you  don't  understand,  you  don't  understand,  be- 
cause your  training  has  been  different." 

"Well,  if  my  training  has  been  defective  in  the  past, 
I  can  remedy  it.  I  never  tried  to  climb  a  perpendicular 
wall  with  the  aid  of  a  rope,  but  it  is  not  too  late  to  learn." 

"No,  no!  You  would  be  killed!  No  one  has  ever 
attempted  that  feat  but  Ned.  And  even  if  you  succeeded 
in  getting  to  the  dying  woman,  what  could  you  do  ?  You 
are  a  stranger  to  her." 

"Even  a  stranger  is  better  than  no  one  at  all." 

"Nunc  dimittis  servum  tuum,  Domine:  secundum 
verbum  tuum  in  pace,"  came  wafted  to  us  on  the  beau- 
tiful summer  breeze.  It  was  a  man's  voice,  clear  and 
deep,  yet  sad,  reminding  one  of  the  sounds  of  muffled 
drum-beats  at  a  soldier's  funeral. 

"Quia  viderunt  oculi  mei :  salutare  tuum." 

The  singer  was  nearer  now,  and  the  voice  carried  a 
note  of  triumph.  To  the  listeners  the  wild  cliffs  became 
the  arched  walls  of  a  cathedral,  and  the  scent  of  the 
gorse  and  heather  was  mingled  with  that  of  incense. 

"It's  Father  Henry!"  said  the  girl,  joyfully.  "Oh, 
if  he  were  only  here!  Is  he  far  away?  Is  he  coming 
toward  us?  He  will  do  something.  He  will  think  of 
something  that  we  cannot.  Call  him !  Shout !" 

There  was  little  need.  He  was  coming  rapidly  toward 
us  on  Father  Tom's  mountain  pony,  and  softly  singing, 
with  his  head  thrown  back.  We  rowed  across  to  him 
as  fast  as  two  pairs  of  oars  would  let  us.  He  saw  us,  dis- 
mounted, and,  tethering  his  pony  to  a  sapling,  took  his 
seat  in  the  boat.  He  unfolded  his  stole  without  speak- 
ing and  placed  it  around  his  neck. 

"Where  is  the  dying  man?"  he  asked. 


156  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"There  is  no  dying  man,  Father,"  replied  Eleanor; 
"but " 

"There  was  a  call  on  the  slate  for  a  priest's  services 
at  the  'Gap.'  There  was  no  name  given,  and  as  the 
houses  are  very  few  and  very  scattered,  I  thought  a  vesper 
hymn  would  give  notice  of  my  approach." 

Eleanor  and  I  exchanged  glances  of  astonishment. 

"You  don't  know  who  sent  in  the  call?" 

"No;  the  housekeeper  saw  no  one.  I  came  as  quickly 
as  possible.  I  hope  I  am  not  too  late." 

When  Eleanor  told  her  story,  he  showed  no  astonish- 
ment. He  had  heard  the  history  of  the  unfortunate 
Eleanor  O'Gorman,  but  the  mystery  of  the  "Gap"  was  a 
sealed  book  to  him. 

"You  will  have  to  proceed  to  the  high  road  and  take 
a  side-car,  Father,"  and  the  girl  sobbed. 

"Too  late,  too  late!"  said  the  young  priest.  "There 
must  be  another  way." 

"Only  the  way  that  Ned  went — over  the  cliff." 

The  rope  was  still  dangling.  The  young  man  looked 
up. 

"What  Ned  can  do,  surely  I  can  do." 

"It  is  impossible!"  said  the  girl,  in  horror-stricken 
tones.  "You  would  be  dashed  to  pieces.  The  rope  has 
seen  hard  usage.  It  may  not  hold  your  weight." 

"And  yet  I  am  not  so  heavy  as  Ned — not  nearly  so 
heavy.  I  will  try  it.  God,  who  permitted  me  to  come, 
will  not  desert  that  poor  woman  in  her  dying  hour." 

"The  cave  is  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  above  the 
water.  Oh,  Father,  you  dare  not  run  the  risk !"  cried  the 
girl. 

There  was  no  reply,  for  the  priest  was  ascending.     I 


EXCOMMUNICATED  157 

looked  down  in  the  shadows  of  the  river,  sick  with  the 
expectation  of  hearing  a  falling  body.  The  girl  knelt  and 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  I,  who  dared  not  look 
up,  dared  to  watch  the  reflection  of  the  rope  with  its 
human  burden  in  the  water.  It  was  still,  with  the  weight 
of  a  heavy  strain,  and  hung  taut  and  close  to  the  rocks. 
The  black  speck  was  nearing,  slowly  nearing,  the  top. 
He  was  almost  there.  The  rope  seemed  to  part ;  no,  it  was 
but  a  motion  of  the  water,  but  it  made  me  dizzy. 

"He's  there!"  said  the  girl;  "he's  there,  thank  God!" 
I  ventured  to  look  up.  The  empty  rope  was  dangling 
free  again.  In  a  little  while  it  was  drawn  up,  and  we  were 
left  to  our  own  thoughts. 

"I  am  sorry  to  detain  you,"  said  Miss  Eleanor;  "but  I 
cannot  leave  here  until  I  hear  something." 

"I  am  well  satisfied  to  remain,"  was  my  answer.  The 
sun  was  sinking  behind  the  mountains,  when  the  rope 
was  flung  out  again  to  the  breeze.  No  human  form  de- 
pended from  it  this  time — only  a  little  white  missive. 
Miss  Eleanor  caught  it  eagerly. 

"Your  friend  has  just  breathed  her  last,"  it  ran,  "after 
receiving  all  the  rites  of  the  Church.  She  was  conscious 
to  the  end,  and  died  full  of  penitence  and  hope.  I  shall 
remain  here  till  you  send  Father  Tom  and  someone  to 
take  charge  of  the  remains.  Tell  them  to  come  by  the 
cottage  on  the  Leenane  Road,  for  the  mystery  of  the 
'Gap'  is  a  mystery  no  longer." 

"This  must  be  the  means  of  access  to  the  cave,"  said  a 
voice  at  my  elbow. 

"But  the  ascent  would  be  an  extremely  difficult  feat." 

Two  men,  well  dressed  and  prosperous  looking,  were 
examining  the  rope.  A  guide  stood  in  the  background. 


158  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

Miss  Eleanor,  who  was  weeping  softly,  dried  her  eyes 
and  regarded  them  sternly.  "  She's  gone  where  your  per- 
secution cannot  reach  her,"  she  said.  "It  was  a  brave 
thing,  this  hounding  of  a  fellow  creature." 

"My  dear  young  lady,  you  must  have  been  misin- 
formed. I  have  come- " 

"Yes,  yes,  an  hour  or  two  too  late,  thank  God,  in  whose 
keeping  they  are." 

"My  dear  young  lady " 

"You  bribed  the  poor  innocent  to  betray  his  friends 


"It  was  impossible  to  do  it."  The  guide  was  speaking 
in  very  good  English. 

He  was  the  man  who  had  acted  as  guide  for  the  lad) 
and  the  artist,  and  who  had  been  so  ignorant  of  the  Eng- 
lish language. 

"It  was  impossible  to  do  it.  He  led  our  friends  up  to 
Bena-y-Vricaan,  where  they  are  still  groping  for  a  path. 
As  for  me,  I  discovered  the  cave  by  the  existence  of  this 
rope,  hanging  so  loosely,  as  we  passed  this  morning, 
though  I  looked  so  stupid." 

"Allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  the  best  detective  in  the 
United  Kingdom.  As  he  has  now  completed  his  work, 
it  is  no  matter,"  said  the  first  man. 

"The  young  lady  has  no  occasion  to  be  angry  with 
either  of  us,"  said  the  detective,  politely.  "We  only 
came  to  bring  our  friend  good  news.  By  Lady  O'Hagan's 
will,  made  on  her  death-bed,  Eleanor  O'Gorman,  who 
married  Richard  Ward,  and  whose  marriage  was  de- 
clared null  and  void  by  the  highest  tribunal,  has  been 
declared  her  heir  to  her  whole  estate." 

"Had  it  come  earlier,  it  might  have  subdued  a  little 


EXCOMMUNICATED  159 

the  troubles  of  their  hard  lot,"  said  the  girl.  "As  it 
is " 

"As  it  is,"  repeated  the  lawyer,  "it  reverts — every- 
thing reverts — to  Eleanor  O'Gorman,  a  distant  namesake 
and  cousin,  who,  the  will  says,  showed  much  kindness 
to  the  unfortunate  woman  aforesaid." 

"The  young  lady  is  here  present,"  said  the  detective. 

Miss  Eleanor  looked  bewildered. 

"Daughter  of  Francis  O'Gorman  and  Mary  Mc- 
Dermott,  both  deceased,  and  niece  of  Rev.  Thomas 

McDermott,  parish  priest  of  B ,  Kingdom  of  Conne- 

mara,  County  Galway,  Ireland." 

"The  same,"  said  the  detective.  "It  took  me  three 
weeks  to  collect  the  proofs,  but  they're  all  clear." 

"It's  a  poor  time  for  congratulations,  Miss  Eleanor 
O'Gorman,  but  believe  me,  mine  are  sincere,"  and  the 
lawyer  bowed. 

"It  is  all  so  strange,"  remarked  the  young  lady,  a  few 
hours  later.  "Was  it  Providence  that  caused  Ned,  con- 
trary to  my  intention,  to  drop  the  stone  in  the  water  so 
early,  and  be  the  means  of  getting  our  unfortunate  rela- 
tive reconciled  to  the  Church?" 

"Ned  is  a  strange  fellow,  and,  as  you  say,  has  lucid 
moments,"  I  remarked. 

"Then  I  must  correct  myself,"  said  Miss  Eleanor.  "I 
should  have  said  inspired  moments." 

"What  about  those  poor  tourists  he  inveigled  to  Bena- 
y-Vricaan  ?" 

"They  were  rescued  by  the  police,  at  half-past  ten  at 
night.  The  police  knew  as  little  about  the  place  as  the 
tourists,  and  had  to  hire  Ned  to  lead  them  and  carry  them 

down,  one  by  one,  on  his  back.    He  charged  them  a  pound 
11 


160       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

of  tobacco  and  a  new  shilling  for  his  services.  He  lost 
them  again  on  Bena  McCulloch,  police  and  all,  where 
they  were  groping  from  crag  to  crag  and  from  cave  to 
cave  until  nearly  two  this  morning.  He  charged  them 
another  pound  of  tobacco  and  another  shilling  for  leading 
them  out  on  the  main  road.  The  police  were  nearly  wild 
with  rage  at  the  trick  played  on  them,  but  they  could  do 
nothing.  Here  comes  Ned  now." 

"As  I  am  not  a  member  of  your  church,  and  much  of 
your  faith  is  a  dead  letter  to  me,  I  wish  to  ask  a  question." 

"As  many  as  you  wish." 

"Would  Father  Tom  be  justified  in  giving  the  rites  of 
the  Church  to  your  unfortunate  cousin  under  similar  cir- 
cumstances ?  Was  she  not  still  under  the  ban  of  excom- 
munication ?" 

The  girl  hesitated.  "I  think  so,"  she  said.  "Anyway, 
Father  Henry,  not  Father  Tom,  was  sent;  and  Father 
Henry  is  a  law  unto  himself." 

"Well,  then,  in  my  humble  opinion,  Father  Henry  is  a 
hero." 

"And  in  mine,  too,"  said  Miss  Eleanor. 

It  was  with  a  sigh  of  regret  that  I  departed  from  the 
hospitable  home  of  Father  Tom,  and  for  many  a  day  the 
fair  face  of  my  lady  of  the  cliffs,  the  beautiful  Eleanor, 
clung  to  my  memory,  and  in  my  day  dreams  I  live  over 
again  the  few  hours  that  I  spent  in  her  companionship. 


ROSY  OTOOLE'S  HOUR  OF  PURGATORY        161 


ROSY  OTOOLE'S  HOUR  OF  PURGATORY. 

"The  luxuries  of  one  generation  are  the  necessities  of  another." 

"Ay,  ay,  Rosy,  sae  it's  coom  tae  this!  Weel,  we  daurna 
spake  next.  Ye  micht  as  weel  gie  oop  yir  life  noo,  as  be 
dune  wi'  a'  coom  fort,  an'  theere's  coomfort  ee'  th'  tay 
pot,"  said  Molly,  indignantly. 

Rosy  shook  her  head.  The  shining  metal  was  gleam- 
ing and  sparkling  in  the  sunlight,  as  it  passed  back  and 
forth  between  her  fair  hands.  Seaweed  and  hot  water, 
and  sometimes  sand,  were  the  only  scouring  ingredients 
known  in  Connemara;  but  Rosy  scorned  to  put  sand  on 
her  teapot. 

"It's  thrue  fer  Father  Tom,  tay  is  an  exthravagant 
dhrink.  It's  fair  robbery,  so  it  is,  wid  tay  at  sixteen  shil- 
lin's  a  pound.  If  we  can  afford  it  at  Christmas  and  Ais- 
ther,  we  ought  to  be  contint,"  she  said,  after  a  minute. 

Molly's  answer  was  a  scornful  laugh.  The  borders  of 
her  cap,  stiff  and  white,  rattled  with  indignation.  If 
the  clergymen  were  going  to  turn  the  tide  of  popular 
opinion  against  her  favorite  beverage,  what  was  to  be- 
come of  her? 

"Christmas  an'  Aisther,"  she  echoed.  "It's  clean 
reediklus  frae  a  pulpit — tae  be  pokin'  at  what  a  puir 
woman  puts  intae  her  stummak." 

"Shure,  Father  Tom  knows  best,"  answered  Rosy; 
but  she  sighed  as  she  poised  her  pretty  souvenir  so  as 


162       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

to  catch  the  straggling  sunbeams.  She  gave  it  another 
dust  or  two  with  a  dry  cloth  and  was  reaching  out  to 
place  it  on  the  highest  shelf  of  the  dresser,  when  a  ques- 
tion from  her  visitor  stayed  her  hand. 

"Hoo  mony  cups  o'  tay  dis  Fayther  Tom  alloo  him- 
sel'  ?  Ay,  it's  ane  law  f er  him,  an'  anither  fer  th'  people. 
A'  knaw  a  thing  or  twa,  lassie." 

Rosy  stood  aghast,  one  arm  stretched  to  its  utmost, 
and  the  glittering  teapot  high  above  her  head,  while, 
with  changing  color,  she  listened  to  this  high  heresy. 

"A  cup  o'  tay  noo  an'  then  is  nae  mair  than  richt, 
an'  a'  hope  his  reverence  dis  nae  waur." 

Rosy  lowered  her  hand  and  gave  another  fleck  to  the 
spout  of  the  teapot.  What  Molly  said  was  true,  but 
somehow  it  didn't  sound  very  respectful  to  Father  Tom ; 
yet  she  hardly  knew  where  the  fault  lay.  On  second 
thought  she  reflected  that  Molly  had  spent  her  youth  in 
the  "black  North,"  and  couldn't  know  much.  Molly's 
thoughts  ran  in  the  same  line,  but  with  a  different  back- 
ground. "  Hoots !  What  kin  th'  lassie  ken  ?  She's  niv- 
vir  been  oot  o'  Connemara." 

She  said  nothing,  however,  but  wagged  her  head,  rat- 
tled her  cap-borders,  and  winked  both  her  eyes  in  a 
manner  peculiar  to  herself. 

"They  say  that  tay  hurts  the  narves,"  ventured  Rosy, 
timidly. 

Molly  laughed  so  heartily  that  her  fat  sides  shook  and 
her  face  looked  as  if  it  were  going  to  burst. 

"It's  th'  want  of  it  that  hurts  my  narves,  lassie.  Gie 
me  a  cup  an'  I'll  tull  ye  yir  luck." 

Rosy  shook  her  head ;  but  it  was  a  feeble  shake.  Molly 
saw  her  advantage  and  followed  it  up. 


ROSY  OTOOLE'S  HOUR  OF  PURGATORY        163 

"Ane  cup  mair  won't  break  yir  hairt.  Coom,  lassie, 
ane  cup  mair  an'  yir  fortune." 

Rosy  glanced  nervously  out  of  the  one  little  diamond- 
paned  window. 

"Dinna  be  'feared,"  urged  Molly.  "Yir  man  winna 
be  hame  fer  five  oors  yit.  He's  gane  tae  th'  feeshin'." 

A  dhrawin'  of  tay  won't  break  anybody,"  Rosy  mut- 
tered to  herself ;  and,  going  into  the  bedroom,  she  brought 
sixpence  from  a  hidden  hoard,  hesitated,  looked  at  it,  as 
she  had  looked  at  the  teapot,  from  various  points  of  view, 
rubbed  it  against  her  scarlet  petticoat,  placed  it  between 
her  teeth  and  bit  it,  and  finally,  scratching  the  edge  with 
her  nail,  said,  "It's  a  good  sixpence." 

"O'  coorse  yon's  a  guid  saxpence.  What  are  ye 
speirin'  aboot?"  queried  Molly.  "D'ye  want  tae  wait  tull 
th'  coos  coom  hame?" 

"Half  an  ounce  of  the  best,"  was  Rosy's  answer  as 
she  dropped  the  money  into  her  friend's  hand  quickly, 
as  if  afraid  of  changing  her  mind. 

"I'll  be  back  in  a  minute;  put  on  th'  keetle,  an'  mix 
a  cake,"  said  Molly,  not  giving  her  a  chance. 

She  soon  returned  from  the  cross-roads  grocery  and 
the  preparations  for  the  coming  festivity  began  in  dead 
earnest.  Molly  was  a  connoisseur  and  maintained  that  the 
water  had  boiled  too  long.  Fresh  water  was  obtained 
and  set  to  boil  again,  while  the  cake  was  turning  a  deli- 
cious brown.  Everything  was  progressing  beautifully. 
The  cake  was  done  to  a  turn;  the  tea  was  put  to  steep 
at  precisely  the  right  moment;  Molly's  eyes  were  glis- 
tening and  her  mouth  watering  for  the  coming  feast, 
when 

To  make  a  story  clear  it  is  always  better  to  start  at 


164  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

the  beginning  and  give  some  cause  for  the  circumstances 
related.  The  reason  that  the  young  housekeeper  just 
mentioned  was  giving  up  her  occasional  cup  of  tea  and 
putting  her  teapot  away  for  great  festivals  was  all  on 
account  of  a  sermon  preached  on  the  previous  Sunday. 
Rosy  loved  her  tea,  and  as  her  husband  was  not  the 
poorest  man  in  Connemara,  had  allowed  herself  a  tare 
treat  outside  of  the  great  occasions;  but  she  felt  that 
Father  Tom  was  right,  and  that  such  wicked  indulgences 
must  cease. 

Father  Tom  McDermott's  parish  was  poor  and  scat- 
tered. It  was  bounded  on  one  side  by  the  sea  and  on 
the  other  three  sides  by  the  sea  and  the  mountains.  The 
sea  made  inroads  in  every  direction,  converting  numer- 
ous little  islands,  crowded  with  shell-fish  gatherers  in 
the  morning,  into  one  vast  sea  at  night.  Unlike  the 

rest  of  the  Emerald  Isle,  B and  the  other 

small  hamlets  in  charge  of  Father  Tom  were  barren, 
and  in  this  it  resembled  the  whole  district  of  Connemara. 
What  it  lost  in  utility  it  made  up  in  beauty.  The  sun 
never  shone  on  wilder  and  more  beautiful  scenery,  but 
the  poor  people  found  it  very  hard  to  live  on  beauty 
alone. 

If,  as  the  clergyman  often  remarked,  Connemara  could 
only  have  had  the  stamp  of  fashion  set  upon  it  as  a 
resort,  all  would  have  been  well;  but  the  Queen  chose 
to  patronize  a  German  watering-place,  and  you  could 
hardly  blame  her,  as  Father  Tom  remarked,  considering 
that  she  was  a  German  to  the  backbone  (and  for  seven 
generations)  and  would  naturally  feel  at  home  among 
her  own  people ;  still,  as  he  added,  it  was  her  duty  to  do 
something  for  the  benefit  of  the  people  she  was  put  over 
as  a  ruler. 


ROSY  O'TOOLE'S  HOUR  OF  PURGATORY       165 

As  Connemara  was  not  a  fashionable  watering-place, 
Father  Tom  had  no  trouble  from  the  inroads  of  worldli- 
ness  and  vanity  in  dress  that  such  state  of  things  often 
entails ;  and  that  consoled  him  not  a  little. 

As  it  was,  his  parishioners  kept  body  and  soul  together 
only  by  continual  contests  with  the  elements.  If  the 
land  was  begrudging,  the  sea  was  generous.  A  little 
farming  and  a  good  deal  of  fishing  occupied  the  people 
along  the  coast.  With  the  sea  running  up  into  their 
potato  fields,  every  farmer  kept  a  boat,  and  as  every- 
thing was  taxed,  paid  a  tax  for  the  privilege  of  fishing, 
only  to  discover  for  the  thousandth  time  that  the  cost 
of  transporting  the  fish  to  a  good  market  overcame  the 
profit. 

Father  Tom  never  troubled  himself  with  the  affairs  of 
state,  except  when  the  general  injustice  of  things  inter- 
fered with  the  prospects  of  the  people  in  his  parish.  The 
indifference  of  a  government  that  was  felt  only  in  taxes, 
made  him  at  such  times  bitter ;  but  he  was  usually  easy- 
going and  good-natured. 

At  the  time  of  which  I  write,  the  tax  for  the  state 
church  weighed  heavily  on  the  people  of  Connemara,  as 
there  were  so  few  professing  the  state  religion.  The  people 
were  paying  a  double  church  tax,  one  for  the  church  they 
attended,  and  the  other  for  the  one  they  didn't;  and  the 
taxes  were  often  collected  under  protest,  as  when  the 
bailiff  drove  away  the  widow's  last  cow  or  a  boat  from 
the  door  of  a  poor  fisherman. 

Outside  of  these  little  interruptions,  the  people  were 
happy  enough.  If  their  means  were  small,  their  re- 
quirements were  small,  too,  and  it  took  little  to  make 
them  happy.  The  virtue  most  practiced  in  Connemara 


166  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

was  hospitality.  You  might  travel  all  day  and  never  see 
a  hotel  and  never  miss  a  meal,  though  it  might  run  from 
potatoes  and  milk,  or  potatoes  and  salmon,  to  a  menu 
of  five  courses,  the  resident  gentry  being  as  friendly  as 
the  poor. 

There  is  something  very  graceful  in  the  way  the  Con- 
nemara  peasant  makes  a  stranger  welcome  to  his  house, 
and  it  savors  strongly  of  the  "grand  seigneur."  How  de- 
lightedly he  sits  you  down  to  his  often  scanty  meal,  and 
then  refuses  scornfully  any  return  for  it.  A  Connemara 
man  is  the  truest  Celt,  "the  truest  friend,  the  fiercest 
foe;"  impossible  to  drive,  easy  to  lead. 

The  contributions  to  Father  Tom  were  voluntary;  yet 
it  took  a  certain  amount  of  labor  to  collect  them,  and 
many  a  journey  the  priest  and  his  pony  made  over  moun- 
tain and  beach  to  remind  delinquent  parishioners  that 
their  dues  were  unpaid.  In  order  to  be  able  to  meet  the 
back  rents  and  the  double  church  dues,  the  closest  econ- 
omy was  enforced. 

Tea  was  a  luxury  and  used  only  by  well-to-do  people, 
except  on  state  occasions.  It  was  also  very  expensive, 
and  wages  were  very  low.  To  be  accused  of  tea-drinking 
(with  proof  of  crime)  was  equivalent  to  being  accused  of 
whisky-drinking  at  the  present  time.  At  its  door  were 
laid  all  poverty  and  many  other  woes.  It  was  pronounced 
"tay"  by  the  country  people,  and  is  still  called  so  by 
the  same  class  in  England  and  Scotland. 

The  extravagance  of  "tay  dhrinkin'  "  was  creeping  into 
Father  Tom's  parish,  with  its  accompanying  evils,  and 
he  was  wroth.  Perhaps  the  church  dues  were  light  in 
consequence;  anyway,  he  denounced  it,  and  in  his  parish 
he  was  king. 


ROSY  O'TOOLE'S  HOUR  OF  PURGATORY        167 

It  was  the  fashion  just  then  to  drag  social  sins  and 
reigning  absurdities  into  the  pulpit,  to  inveigh  against 
extremes  in  dress,  speech  or  manners.  Father  Tom's 
chapels,  three  in  number,  placed  at  equidistant  points 
in  his  scattered  parish,  did  not  boast  of  one  pulpit  be- 
tween them,  and  a  stranger,  glancing  over  the  devout 
but  humble  worshipers  gathered  in  them,  would  hesitate 
before  accusing  them  of  participating  in  any  of  the 
fashionable  fads  of  the  day;  yet  the  attention  with 
which  he  was  listened  to,  and  the  shock  his  words  created 
in  the  minds  of  his  hearers  far  exceeded  that  produced 
by  the  diatribes  uttered  by  more  distinguished  ecclesi- 
astics in  Galway  and  Dublin. 

It  was  necessary  for  Father  Tom  to  pause  several 
times  in  the  course  of  his  sermon,  to  allow  the  murmurs 
of  surprise  and  approval  to  die  away.  The  noise  made 
by  clacking  the  tongue  against  the  roof  of  the  mouth, 
when  made  by  several  persons  at  once,  might  be,  in 
fact  it  was,  meant  to  be  complimentary  to  the  preacher, 
but  was  not  conducive  to  a  proper  hearing  of  the  sub- 
ject. Husbands  looked  askance  at  their  wives,  and  wives 
looked  down  and  were  concerned  in  the  fastening  of 
their  cloaks,  while  the  old  women  whose  husbands  had 
been  long  since  laid  away  in  the  ancient  graveyard  by 
the  sea,  and  were  the  hardest  hit  of  all,  pretended  to  be 
deaf,  and  continued  their  prayers  aloud. 

"Tay  dhrinkers,"  said  Father  Tom,  falling  into  a  rich 
brogue  as  he  became  excited,  "are  the  ruin  of  their 
families;  God  forgive  them.  They  are  sapping  the 
foundations  of  their  homes,  and  will  eventually  have 
nowhere  to  lay  their  heads.  A  girl  who  dhrinks  tay  is 
not  fit  to  be  the  wife  of  an  industhrious  man.  Have  noth- 


168       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

ing  to  do  with  her,  boys.  It  would  take  the  earnings  of 
three  men  to  keep  her  in  the  dhrink,  which  I  wish  to  the 
Lord  had  been  left  to  the  Chinese. 

"When  some  of  our  men  go  out  to  their  work  in  the 
morning,"  continued  the  priest,  "the  women  get  together, 
and  the  taypot  that  has  been  put  away  for  Christmas  is 
brought  out,  and  then  God  help  the  characters  of  their 
neighbors.  Scandal,  my  dear  friends,  goes  hand-in-hand 
with  tay-dhrinking,  and  it's  my  opinion  that  the  devil, 
horns  and  all,  is  inside  the  taypot." 

To  deeply  forbid  a  pleasure  is  to  advertise  it.  The 
pleasure  to  be  obtained  from  a  steaming  cup  of  tea  never 
appealed  so  strongly  to  the  women  of  the  congregation 
as  when  it  was  attacked  from  the  altar. 

Women  are  queer  beings.  Nine-tenths  of  those  who 
were  becomingly  shocked  and  swayed  by  Father  Tom's 
eloquence  into  a  complete  repudiation  of  the  devastating 
habit,  had,  five  minutes  after  their  cloaks  and  hoods 
were  doffed,  cast  longing  and  lingering  glances  toward 
the  top  shelf  of  the  dresser,  where  stood  the  tempting 
teapots. 

The  women  who  did  not  put  their  drawing  powers  to 
the  test  were  those  who  had  not  the  price.  Unfortunately 
for  the  others,  on  the  very  Monday  after  his  famous  ser- 
mon, the  good  priest  mounted  his  pony  and  proceeded 
to  visit  among  his  parishioners. 

Rosy  O'Toole  was  the  wife  of  a  comfortable  farmer — 
that  is,  as  farmers  go  in  Connemara — and  a  model  mem- 
ber of  the  flock.  Her  house  was  as  clean  as  sand,  water, 
and  seaweed  (used  as  soap)  could  make  it.  Her  butter 
firkins  were  sweet  from  the  same  cause,  and  as  she  was 
neat  in  person  and  comely  to  look  upon,  she  was  never 


ROSY  OTOOLE'S  HOUR  OF  PURGATORY       169 

forgotten  when  the  clergyman  came  to  make  his  usual 
rounds.  She  was  pious,  too,  seldom  missing  Mass,  and 
altogether  a  most  satisfactory  person  and  the  last  one 
to  be  suspected  of  breaking  the  law. 

Hers  was  one  of  the  few  houses  which  Father  Tom 
honored  by  taking  his  dinner  there  when  delayed  beyond 
his  usual  time — a  meal  he  always  ordered  two  hours  in 
advance,  and  which,  to  restrain  the  family  honored  from 
going  to  any  extra  expense,  he  insisted  should  consist  of 
hot,  mealy  potatoes,  freshly  boiled  salmon,  and  milk. 

Mrs.  Rose  O'Toole  had  drunk  in  the  sermon  of  the 
previous  Sunday  as  she  had  drunk  her  tea,  quietly  and 
wisely.  She  was  a  woman  of  few  words,  and  conse- 
quently her  thoughts  had  time  to  rusticate.  She  de- 
termined to  give  up  the  habit.  It  certainly  must  be  very 
bad  when  Father  Tom  said  so.  Its  cost  she  could  verify 
for  herself. 

On  returning  from  church,  she,  too,  looked  long  at  the 
teapot  on  her  shelf.  It  was  certainly  dull.  A  little  scour- 
ing wouldn't  do  it  any  harm.  We  have  seen  how  the 
work  of  polishing  progressed. 

The  cake  was  done  to  a  turn,  buttered  and  laid  on  the 
hob,  to  keep  company  with  the  steaming  teapot,  when  she 
glanced  through  the  window  to  see  a  well-known  form 
jogging  along  on  a  no  less  well-known  pony.  Good 
Heavens !  It  was  Father  Tom — and  coming  right  to  the 
house ! 

With  a  shriek  to  Molly,  she  seized  the  cakes,  telling  her 
to  look  out  for  the  teapot.  Alas !  Molly  was  busy  look- 
ing out  for  herself.  That  Father  Tom  had  a  rod  in  pickle 
for  her  was  no  secret.  He  strongly  objected  to  certain  ma- 
nipulations of  hers  with  "the  cup  that  cheers,"  whereby 


170       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

the  heads  of  various  members  of  his  congregation  were 
filled  with  nonsensical  ideas,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  and 
they  were  made  disobedient  to  their  parents  in  matrimonial 
matters. 

Molly  did  not  want  to  meet  Father  Tom  "or  ony  of  his 
soort"  just  then ;  but  how  was  she  to  get  out  ?  The  situa- 
tion was  appalling ;  but  she  was  an  old  strategist,  and  hard 
to  beat  at  a  game  of  chance.  Her  eyes  were  wildly  rolling, 
and  her  cap-borders  rattling  like  castanets,  as  she  hur- 
riedly cast  about  for  a  loop-hole  of  escape ;  but  unless  she 
could  squeeze  her  capacious  person  through  the  keyhole, 
or  fly  over  Father  Tom's  head,  she  saw  none,  and  the 
priest  was  at  the  door. 

The  thought  made  her  desperate.  Just  then  her  eye 
fell  on  the  bed,  through  the  open  door  of  the  "off  room," 
with  its  neat  "testhers."  It  was  low,  to  be  sure,  and  Molly 
was  large,  and  the  sequence  was  doubtful;  but  oblivion 
was  worth  trying  for.  She  made  a  sudden  rush  and  a 
lurch  and  a  couple  of  wriggles  that  shook  the  old  heirloom 
to  its  foundation,  and  disappeared  from  sight.  Rosy 
O'Toole  dashed  the  dish  of  cakes  into  an  empty  firkin,  and 
turned  to  find  her  friend  gone  and  the  steaming  teapot 
still  in  evidence. 

With  a  feeling  of  desperation,  she  seized  it,  and  was 
preparing  to  run,  when  she  heard  the  click  of  the  latch.  It 
was  too  late.  Not  knowing  what  else  to  do,  she  placed  it 
on  the  floor,  and  sat  down,  letting  the  drapery  of  her  cloak, 
which  she  providentially  threw  around  her  in  the  first 
excitement,  fall  around  it. 

Never  was  visitor  more  unexpected,  and  with  a  wild 
hope  that  he  would  not  stay  long,  she  gave  him  a  falter- 
ing welcome.  She  dared  not  rise,  lest  she  should  reveal 


ROSY  OTOOLE'S  HOUR  OF  PURGATORY       171 

the  hidden  luxury,  and  the  fear  that  the  clergyman  would 
notice  the  disrespect  brought  confusion  to  her  eyes. 

"God  bless  all  here,"  said  the  visitor,  uncovering. 

"Amen,  and  God  save  your  reverence,"  answered  Rose, 
without  rising. 

Father  Tom,  however,  was  too  preoccupied  to  notice  the 
omission.  He  seated  himself  in  the  biggest  chair  and 
wiped  his  brow.  His  pony  was  standing  at  the  door  with 
quivering  flanks  and  dilated  nostrils,  unheeded.  He  was 
not  used  to  this  treatment,  any  more  than  his  master ;  and 
having  nothing  extra  to  occupy  his  mind,  he  turned  his 
eyes,  big  with  astonishment,  on  the  usually  hospitable 
house,  whose  mistress  always  saw  that  he  was  rubbed 
down,  and  a  good  dinner  provided  for  him.  He  missed 
the  pat  of  her  warm  hand,  as  she  caressingly  welcomed 
him  in  the  only  language  he  knew.  The  second  omission 
would  not  have  passed  unnoticed  by  Father  Tom  if  he  had 
not  been  more  than  usually  troubled.  In  the  deep  silence 
that  followed,  Molly's  heavy  breathing  could  be  distinctly 
heard.  Rose  felt  she  must  speak,  or  go  mad. 

"Is  any  one  of  the  neighbors  sick,  Father?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  said  Father  Tom,  with  a  start.  "No,  it's  just  the 
Buckleys  and  the  Wests  in  Galilee.  They're  at  it  again. 
I  must  put  a  stop  to  it,  and  at  once.  Oh,  those  Buckleys !" 

The  priest  fell  into  another  reverie,  and  the  tea  was  not 
idle.  Galilee  was  a  fishing  village  situated  on  an  island 
about  a  mile  from  the  coast,  at  the  farthest  part,  while 
at  the  nearest  point  it  was  so  close  to  the  shore  as  to  be 
an  island  only  at  high  tide. 

A  little  farming  and  a  little  fishing  occupied  the  bulk 
of  Father  Tom's  parishioners,  but  Galilee  made  no  attempt 
at  farming.  The  rocks  and  sands  there  gave  no  shelter  for 


172       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

the  seeds,  which  even  far  inland  were  likely  to  be  blown 
into  the  elements  in  their  unchanged  condition;  but  the 
people  of  Galilee  were  content  with  the  sea.  The 
sea  was  their  farm,  for  the  products  of  which  they 
could  not  always  find  a  market.  They  carried  their  fish 
to  Kilrush  in  unwieldy  boats,  and  sold  it  for  enough  to 
keep  body  and  soul  together;  but  that  did  not  prevent 
them  from  returning  with  a  few  extra  vices,  and  a  keg 
or  two  of  whisky,  and  this  whisky  was  responsible  for 
the  altercations  that  saddened  Father  Tom. 

The  farming  population  of  the  scattered  parish  looked 
askance  at  the  fishermen,  and  seldom  married  among  them. 
A  fishermaid  was  supposed  to  know  nothing  outside  of  the 
mending  of  nets,  and  to  be  ignorant  of  the  a  b  c  of  butter- 
making.  The  girls  were  often  very  pretty,  although  an 
exception  to  this  rule  was  sometimes  furnished. 

The  fishermen  reciprocated  the  feelings  of  the  farmers, 
and  considered  them  as  wanting  in  spirit. 

Galilee  (nicknamed  by  a  witty  schoolmaster)  would 
have  enjoyed  a  fair  share  of  prosperity  under  more  favor- 
able conditions;  but  with  deficient  transportation  facili- 
ties, the  inhabitants  dared  the  perils  of  the  deep  for  very 
little,  and  alternately  feasted  and  starved,  or  left  in  de- 
spair to  seek  for  better  luck  in  America. 

While  these  thoughts  were  coursing  through  Father 
Tom's  mind,  the  teapot  was  getting  in  its  work.  The 
heavy  folds  of  the  cloak  prevented  all  chance  of  the 
steam's  escaping,  and  it  penetrated  every  pore  of  the 
housewife's  body.  Poor  Rose  was  very  uncomfortable,  to 
say  the  least.  Was  this  a  taste  of  the  purgatory  so  often 
spoken  of  but  little  understood?  Would  his  reverence, 
usually  so  welcome,  never  go  ? 


ROSY  O'TOOLE'S  HOUR  OF  PURGATORY        173 

It  was  respectful  to  wait  for  this  visitor  to  speak,  but 
the  young  woman  felt  that  the  silence  was  maddening. 
His  reverence  was  thinking — deeply  thinking — and 
Molly's  breathing  was  almost  audible.  Maybe  the  woman 
had  smothered,  or  was  slowly  smothering. 

"Didn't  your  reverence  marry  one  of  the  Buckley  girls 
to  Malachy  Daniels  last  week?"  asked  Rose. 

"I  did,"  said  the  priest;  "but  it  has  caused  lots  of 
trouble.  He  refuses  to  live  with  her,  saying  the  brothers 
cheated  him,  by  imposing  on  him  the  wrong  sister." 

"Afther  your  reverence  married  them?"  said  the  suffer- 
ing woman,  whose  thoughts  were  elsewhere. 

"Yes,"  said  the  priest,  smiling  at  the  remembrance  of 
his  fee,  which  was  half  a  boat  of  salmon,  and  which  he  had 
to  sell  to  a  huxter  for  five  shillings,  "I  married  them; 
but  how  was  I  to  know  that  the  fellow  didn't  want  the 
woman  when  he  stood  up  beside  her  and  said  'Yes'  to 
everything  ?" 

Mrs.  O'Toole's  house  dress  was  very  simple — a  short 
red  petticoat,  and  a  blue  jacket  with  skirt  attached,  open  in 
front  and  looped  back  to  give  freedom  to  the  arms  in  work- 
ing. It  was  low  in  the  neck  and  short  in  the  sleeves,  for 
the  same  purpose.  Her  snowy  arms  and  neck,  in  which 
even  her  neighbors  saw  something  to  admire,  as  well  as 
her  spinal  column,  were  receiving  a  treatment  unexpected 
and  severe.  No  "beauty  doctor,"  unless  he  wanted  to 
remove  the  skin,  ever  subjected  an  unfortunate  patient  to 
such  a  punishment. 

The  hot  steam,  rushing  from  the  mouth  of  the  teapot, 
went  rushing  wherever  it  could,  causing  the  poor  victim 
of  the  tea-drinking  habit  excruciating  anguish  of  mind  and 
body.  She  winced  under  the  double  laceration,  and  her 


174  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

countenance  was  an  open  page  that  her  pastor  might  have 
read  if  the  good  man  had  not  been  so  engaged  with  other 
matters. 

She  was  quite  aware  that  Father  Tom  regarded  her  as 
one  of  the  model  women  of  his  congregation,  and  she 
felt  herself  a  very  Pharisee.  She  was  a  hypocrite,  she 
thought,  dyed  in  the  wool,  "fair  without  and  foul  within," 
self-indulgent  and  vain.  She  had  been  ignoring  his  ad- 
vice, nay,  commands,  and  robbing  her  husband  at  the 
same  time,  and  now  she  hadn't  the  moral  courage  to  ac- 
knowledge her  fault  and  take  a  scolding.  To  sit  mute 
would  draw  attention  to  her  distress,  so  she  ventured  a 
reply. 

"It's  a  wonder  he  didn't  tell  your  reverence  his  trouble 
there  and  then,"  she  murmured,  forgetting  that  she  wasn't 
acting  that  way  herself. 

"He  says,"  returned  the  priest,  "that  he  was  forced  to 
drink  repeatedly  by  the  Buckley  boys,  and  though  not 
much  of  a  drinking  man,  he  hated  to  refuse  what  might 
be  an  old  custom,  and  that  this  was  done  to  stupefy  him 
and  render  him  unable  to  tell  the  difference  between  the 
two  sisters  at  the  time  of  the  ceremony." 

"But  what  difference  did  it  make  which  sister  was  mar- 
ried?" 

"It  is  the  custom  in  Connemara,  as  you  know," 
answered  the  clergyman,  "to  marry  the  eldest  daughter 
first.  The  parents  being  dead,  the  boys,  who,  in  spite  of 
their  faults,  have  taken  good  care  of  the  family,  are  doing 
the  right  thing  by  their  sisters.  The  young  man  signified 
his  desire  to  become  their  brother-in-law,  and  they  sent 
to  Clifden  for  Amby,  who  was  in  service  with  Squire 
O'Donnell." 


ROSY  O'TOOLE'S  HOUR  OF  PURGATORY       175 

"While  Beezey  was  the  girl  he  saw  every  day  and  was 
in  love  with  ?" 

''Yes;  he  saw  her  every  day,  because  he  was  partner 
with  the  boys  in  the  boat  and  the  girl  helped  to  mend  the 
nets ;  but  there  was  no  talking  nor  love-making  allowed 
by  her  brothers,  who  are  very  strict,  so  they  thought  it 
made  no  matter " 

"  Beezey  is  only  nineteen  and  the  young  man  only  twen- 
ty-two, while  Amby  is  at  least  ten  years  to  the  good,  your 
reverence." 

"What  is  the  difference  in  a  few  years,  one  way  or  the 
other?"  said  the  priest,  evasively.  "Amby  is  a  good  girl ; 
she  would  make  a  good  wife " 

"  She  has  but  the  one  eye,  your  reverence,  and " 

"What  difference  does  the  want  of  an  eye  make  in  ths 
marriage  state?"  said  the  priest,  impatiently.  "The  man 
will  soon  get  used  to  that,  and  as  to  her  being  ten  years 
older,  it  will  make  her  all  the  wiser.  I'll  back  Amby 
against  any  girl  in  any  three  counties  for  cleanliness. 
She's » 

Mrs.  O'Toole's  state  of  body  may  be  imagined.  The 
perspiration  was  pouring  from  her  in  heavy  drops,  and 
her  face  was  the  color  of  a  poppy  in  the  wheatfield.  It 
would  have  been  a  satisfaction  to  her  to  cry  out ;  and  as 
for  the  woman  who  was  flattening  her  stout  person  to  the 
requirements  of  an  eighteen-inch  bed-post,  her  condition 
may  be  better  imagined  than  described. 

The  priest  sat  meditating.    Would  he  never  go  ? 

"What  God  hath  joined  together  let  not  man  put  asun- 
der," he  quoted  aloud.  "The  marriage  cannot  be  broken 
for  any  nonsense  on  the  part  of  the  young  man." 

"Supposin'  Beezey  loves  the  young  man,  your  rever- 
12 


176  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

ence,"  murmured  Rosy  O'Toole,  more  for  the  sake  of 
saying  something  than  in  quest  of  information. 

"Suppose !"  said  Father  Tom,  scornfully.  "What  non- 
sense! Beezey  is  too  sensible  a  girl  to  forget  herself; 
besides,  she's  only  a  little  girl.  Love,  indeed !"  and  Father 
Tom,  who  had  long  outlived  his  romance,  if  he  ever  had 
any,  shook  his  head  in  derision. 

The  pain  and  general  misery  of  the  poor  woman's  posi- 
tion were  becoming  unbearable,  and  she  began  to  cry. 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  child?"  inquired  the  clergy- 
man, looking  sharply  at  her  for  the  first  time.  "Why, 
you're  all  in  a  fever." 

"I'm  thinkin'  of  me  mother,"  said  Rose,  not  knowing 
what  else  to  say. 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course;  it's  the  anniversary  of  her  death. 
Ah,  she  was  a  good  woman,  but  it's  no  use  making  your- 
self unhappy  about  her." 

His  remarks  only  redoubled  the  young  woman's  grief, 
because  she  reproached  herself  for  forgetting  all  about  her 
mother,  and  for  indulging  in  luxuries  instead  of  praying 
for  her. 

Father  Tom  was  distressed.  He  had  baptized  Rose, 
married  her  eighteen  years  later  to  a  very  good  man,  closed 
the  eyes  of  her  parents  in  death  two  years  afterward,  and 
consequently  felt  a  fatherly  interest  in  his  parishioner, 
who  had  never  given  him  any  trouble. 

"Hush,  hush;  don't  cry,  child,"  he  said,  soothingly. 
"Your  mother  is  all  right,  I'm  sure." 

"Maybe  she's  in  purgatory,  Father?" 

"It's  hard  to  tell,  my  child ;  it's  hard  to  tell.  The  Holy 
Word  says,  'Nothing  defiled  can  enter  Heaven ;'  and  how 
many  little  faults  are  the  best  of  us  guilty  of.  Pray  for 


ROSY  O'TOOLE'S  HOUR  OF  PURGATORY       177 

her.  It's  a  holy  and  wholesome  thought  to  pray  for  the 
dead,  that  they  may  be  loosed  from  their  sins !" 

"Oh,  oh,  oh!"  cried  Mrs.  O'Toole,  as  the  hot  steam, 
obeying  the  laws  of  gravitation,  and  finding  no  escape,  was 
coursing  in  heavy  drops  down  her  neck  and  arms  and 
through  the  meshes  of  her  heavy  woolen  stockings. 

"Hush,  hush,  Rose;  your  mother  is  better  off  than  you 
are." 

"She  might  very  easy  be  that,"  thought  the  poor 
woman ;  but  she  cried  all  the  harder. 

"You  must  be  ill,  my  child,"  said  the  priest,  now  really 
alarmed.  "I'll  go  out  to  the  field  and  call  your  husband. 
It's  on  my  way  to  Molly  Dowd's.  I  am  determined  to  see 
that  woman.  Every  time  I  call  she  is  not  to  be  seen,  and 
I'm  going  out  of  my  way  to  pass  her  place.  She's  made 
more  mischief  in  my  parish  than  a  regiment  of  soldiers — 
telling  the  girls'  fortunes,  and  filling  their  heads  full  of 
nonsense.  When  I  catch  her,"  continued  he,  twirling  his 
stick,  "I'll  make  it  so  hot  for  her  that  she  will  forget  to 
toss  the  cup  or  cut  the  cards  for  a  long  time  again." 

With  a  sigh  of  relief,  Mrs.  O'Toole  saw  her  pastor  pre- 
pare to  leave.  Just  then  the  door  opened  and  her  husband 
came  in.  At  sight  of  the  clergyman  he  bowed  low ;  but 
the  priest  grasped  his  hand  in  a  friendly  manner,  with 
many  kind  greetings. 

"You're  not  goin'  yet,  Father,"  the  young  man  said, 
in  a  hearty  way.  "Why,  Rosy,  did  you  think  his  rever- 
ence was  'Campbell  the  faster'  that  you  haven't  axed  him 
to  partake  of  a  bite  or  a  sup — an'  he  five  miles  from  home  ? 
Come,  put  on  the  pot.  There's  as  fine  a  salmon  as  ever 
leaped  there  beyant  in  the  net,  an'  wid  a  dish  o'  mealy 
potatoes,  will  stand  by  him  till  he  reaches  a  betther  table." 


178  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Fare  good  enough  for  a  king;  but  Rosy,  poor  child, 
is  sick  and  faverish.  I  was  just  going  out  to  find  you 
when  you  came  in.  I'm  on  a  special  errand  to-day,  and 
will  call  on  my  way  back.  I  am  anxious  to  intherview 
Molly  Dowd,  that  famous  woman  that  can  dhrink  tay  like 
a  mandarin,  an'  can  tell  our  future  wid  the  lavin's.  I've 
been  thryin'  to  see  her  these  two  years,"  said  the  priest, 
lapsing  into  the  brogue  in  his  excitement,  and  caressing 
fondly  a  neat  shillalah. 

Roger  O'Toole  laughed  heartily,  and  then,  remembering 
that  Rose  was  sick,  he  bent  over  her  and  inquired  tenderly 
what  was  the  matter.  Rosy  sobbed  afresh,  at  which  the 
two  men  looked  much  concerned,  and  puzzled. 

"It's  thrue  for  your  reverence,  she's  in  a  regular  faver. 
There's  a  hate  arising  from  her  that  would  boil  a  kish  av 
eggs.  I  wish  Molly  Mullaney  was  near.  She'd  set  her 
all  right  in  a  few  minutes." 

"I'll  pass  there,  an'  tell  her  to  come  at  once,"  said  the 
clergyman;  "that's  if  I  don't  meet  Dr.  O'Brien  in  my 
thravels.  I  can't  afford  to  lose  my  best  parishioner." 

At  these  kind  words  from  a  source  so  valued,  Rose 
redoubled  her  sobs. 

"Oh,  she'll  be  all  right  in  a  little  while,  your  reverence," 
said  her  husband,  who  probably  was  more  acquainted  with 
her  moods  than  even  the  priest.  "  If  you  meet  Molly  Mul- 
laney, tell  her  to  come,  however,  or  the  doctor,  to  make 
sure ;  but  see  that  you  don't  break  the  poor  fortune-teller's 
bones,  wid  that  rattlin'  stick  o'  yours,"  and  Roger  dis- 
closed a  fine  set  of  teeth  in  a  grin.  "Not  but  what  I  think 
she  deserves  a  few  good  raps ;  but  bein'  a  woman,  it  would 
be  as  well  to  go  lightly  wid  her.  I  have  a  present  for  you 
— a  nate  cane  to  carry  on  the  sthreet.  Mr.  Joyce,  that 


ROSY  O'TOOLE'S  HOUR  OF  PURGATORY        179 

gentleman  who  was  stayin'  around  for  his  health,  left  it 
wid  me  for  you  whin  he  wint  away.  I  put  it  undher  the 
bed.  It's  a  dandy  little  thing  and  as  supple  as  a  sally  rod. 
It  will  do  good  work;  but  I'm  thinkin'  'twill  break  no 
bones." 

He  turned  to  get  it,  but  his  wife  grasped  his  hand. 
"  Stay  wid  me,"  she  whispered. 

"Yes,  yes;  just  let  me  get  the  cane." 

"No,  no;  don't  go  near  it." 

"Don't  go  near  what?" 

"Don't  go  away  from  me.     Hold  me  hand." 

"What  are  ye  afeard  of?" 

"Of  nothing.  Never  mind  the  stick.  Hold  me  hand. 
Don't  lave  me." 

"Av  course  not.  But  let  me  get  the  stick  for  his  rev- 
erence first." 

"No,  no."  Rosy  clung  to  her  husband  with  a  grip  like 
death. 

There  was  a  rustling  sound  under  the  bed. 

"It's  the  sow  again,"  said  Roger,  disgustedly,  "bad 
luck  to  her  impudence.  Will  nothing  suit  her  but  the  best 
room  in  the  house,  and  the  testhers  of  the  best  bed  ?" 

"Tut,  tut!"  muttered  Father  Tom,  who  looked  upon 
Rose  as  a  model  housekeeper.  "Surely  Rose  knows  bet- 
ther  than  to  let  the  sow  in  the  house." 

"It  isn't  her  faut,"  replied  her  husband,  eagerly.  "Rose 
is  one  of  the  natest  cratures  in  the  worl';  but  the  baste 
is  that  concaited,  that  whin  I  give  her  the  run  av  the  road 
now  an'  thin,  nothin'  will  do  her,  when  there's  no  one 
around,  but  to  turn  into  the  house." 

"A  few  good  cracks  of  a  stick  will  go  a  good  way 
towards  tachin  her  manners,"  said  Father  Tom,  who  was 


180  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

a  strong  believer  in  physical  force  when  nothing  else 
would  make  its  mark,  and  who  had  worked  hard  to  en- 
courage neatness  among  certain  members  of  his  congrega- 
tion. With  alien  landlords  and  even  the  native  gentry 
always  on  the  move  for  London  and  other  fashionable 
places  to  spend  their  money  in,  and  always  ready  to  raise 
the  rents  on  every  improvement  in  order  to  get  the  money 
to  spend,  it  was  no  small  task.  That  he  had  succeeded  in 
causing  small  land-holders  to  build  additional  outhouses 
to  accommodate  wandering  animals  and  keep  them  from 
intruding  on  the  apartments  occupied  by  the  family,  was 
saying  a  great  deal,  taking  everything  into  consideration. 

"Run  a  stout  cudgel  under  the  bed,  an'  slash  her  well, 
an'  she  won't  be  so  ready  to  come  in  again,"  continued 
the  clergyman,  who  was  now  astride  of  his  hobby. 

Roger  turned  to  do  so,  when  his  wife  caught  his  coat 
tail.  "Don't  touch  her!"  she  cried.  "Don't  touch  her!" 

What  more  might  have  happened  is  impossible  to  say ; 
f@r  at  this  moment  a  something  darted  from  under  the 
bed,  and  with  flying  drapery  and  disheveled  hair,  dashed 
out  between  them  and  through  the  open  door,  leaving  an 
astonished  and  gaping  crowd  in  her  wake. 

"Molly  Dowd!"  cried  Father  Tom,  gazing  after  her, 
and  then  recollecting  himself,  he  made  a  similar  dash  in 
her  direction ;  but  Molly  was  already  far  ahead,  her  huge 
cap-borders  fluttering  in  the  breeze,  her  stout  form  mov- 
ing with  unusual  speed. 

The  next  surprise  for  Roger  O'Toole  was  to  see  his 
presumably  sick  wife  spring  up,  and  throwing  the  cloak 
from  about  her,  lift  a  teapot  from  the  floor  and  throw  it 
into  the  yard.  The  secret  was  now  out,  and  Roger  went 
from  one  spasm  of  laughter  into  another.  He  was  a 


ROSY  O'TOOLE'S  HOUR  OF  PURGATORY       181 

goo'i-natured    fellow,   however,   and   when   he   saw   his 
wife  so  distressed,  tried  hard  to  control  himself. 

It  took  Rose  some  time  to  get  around  after  her  experi- 
ence, and  a  considerable  amount  of  cold  cream  to  soothe 
her  injured  skin;  but  her  reputation  did  not  suffer,  her 
husband  being  too  manly  a  fellow  to  say  anything  out- 
side, or  give  Father  Tom  the  least  hint  of  the  matter. 
The  good  priest  thought  for  many  years  that  Rose  was 
shielding  Molly  from  his  anger,  and  nothing  else.  She 
lived  to  see  the  day,  however,  that  it  was  considered  no 
crime  to  drink  tea,  and  she  entertained  Father  Tom  with 
the  story,  but  that  was  a  great  many  years  afterward. 


182       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 


MOLLY  DOWD. 

That  "poets  are  born,  not  made,"  was  easily  proved  by 
Molly  Dowd.  Molly  was  of  the  earth  earthy,  and  a 
materialist  of  the  first  water.  Her  surroundings,  after 
appealing  to  every  one  of  the  five  senses  in  turn,  and 
all  together,  left  the  poetic  soul  satisfied  with  nothing 
short  of  heaven,  but  Molly  was  no  poet. 

Her  cabin  was  perched  on  the  top  of  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  mountains  in  Connemara.  The  lark  woke  her 
in  the  morning,  and  the  nightingale  sang  her  to  sleep  at 
night;  and  while  they  were  entertaining  her,  she  could 
have  seen  the  sun  rise  and  set  in  a  burst  of  glory  over 
the  mountain,  rock,  valley  and  river,  and  finally  lose  itself 
in  the  sea.  Before  it  disappeared,  however,  it  gladdened 
the  sight  with  the  various  shades  of  gorse  and  heather, 
and  set  in  a  blaze  the  bloom  of  trailing  arbutus  and 
climbing  witch-roses  that  covered  the  hills  for  acres  all 
around. 

The  fragrance  from  the  many  wild  flowers,  mingled 
with  that  from  gorse  and  heather,  arose  together  like  a 
thanksgiving  to  the  Deity  for  so  much  beauty,  and  then 
like  an  afterthought  came  the  sweet  salt  breath  from 
the  sea,  and  the  dim  outlines  of  small  boats  and  slowly 
moving  sails  that  were  going  to  or  returning  from  the 
day's  fishing. 

She  could  have  seen  Kilkeiran,  ay,  and  even  Round- 


MOLLY  DOWD  183 

stone  Bay,  alive  with  fishing  and  pleasure  boats,  and  at 
every  inlet  along  that  picturesque  coast  the  shell-fish  and 
dillisk  gatherers,  in  their  gaily-colored  costumes,  moving 
from  rock  to  rock,  as  the  waves  permitted  them,  looking 
like  red  and  blue  dots  in  the  shining  water. 

We  were  talking  of  Molly  Dowd,  and  forgot  that 
heavenly  vistas  never  appealed  to  her.  Molly's  idea  of 
heaven  and  everlasting  bliss  was  a  well-filled  tea-pot, 
kept  hot  but  not  boiling  on  the  hob,  and  flanked  by  a 
steaming  platter  of  freshly  buttered  white-flour  cakes. 
She  was  an  epicure  as  well  as  a  materialist,  and  to  thor- 
oughly enjoy  her  tea,  it  had  to  be  of  the  very  best  crop. 
In  the  days  of  which  I  write,  there  was  very  little  bad  tea, 
the  palming  off  of  blackberry  leaves  tinctured  with  lead 
being  unknown.  Men  and  women  often  live  and  die 
without  their  greatest  talent  being  recognized,  or  turned 
to  any  account. 

Molly  could  have  done  duty  as  a  taster  to  the  Emperor 
of  China,  or  to  the  East  India  Company.  Her  sense  of 
smell  was  just  as  perfect,  and  though  it  never  awoke 
to  the  perfume  of  the  arbutus  or  heather,  it  was  keenly 
alive  to  that  of  bohea,  no  matter  how  far  away.  She 
had  been  known  to  trace  a  drawing  of  tea  to  a  farm- 
house at  a  distance  of  a  mile  away,  and  arrive  just  in 
time  to  join  in  a  cup. 

These  wanderings  in  quest  of  her  favorite  beverage 
occurred  only  in  the  beginning  of  her  career.  When  busi- 
ness was  good,  and  she  had  the  price — tea  was  a  shilling 
an  ounce,  and  a  shilling  meant  a  good  deal  in  Connemara 
— she  preferred  to  take  her  tea  at  home.  One  of  our 
greatest  philosophers  said  that  the  cravings  of  hunger 
were  responsible  for  the  advancement  of  science.  With- 


184       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

out  the  necessity  of  keeping  our  stomachs  even  moder- 
ately filled,  we  would  neither  brew  nor  bake,  dig  nor 
delve.  We  can  safely  assert  that  only  for  Molly's  thirst, 
Kilkeiran,  and  indeed  other  villages  along  the  coast 
of  Connemara,  would  never  have  had  a  chance  to  know 
the  extent  of  Molly's  gifts. 

Few  rise  to  eminence  in  a  jump.  "The  wise  woman  of 
Croaghnakeela,"  as  Molly  came  to  be  named  by  the  peo- 
ple, or  "The  witch  of  the  devil,"  as  Father  Tom  called 
her,  did  not  gain  her  notoriety  in  a  day.  She  started  on 
a  small  scale,  little  known  and  little  respected,  and  wound 
up  by  becoming  well  known  and  less  respected,  but  she 
was  quenching  her  thirst,  and  that  was  something. 

Molly  Dowd  had  a  strong  penchant  for  "tay,"  as  it 
was  then  pronounced,  which  she  never  tried  to  conquer, 
and  that  was  how  all  her  troubles  began.  It  was  easier 
to  gratify  that  penchant  by  foretelling  the  future  of  the 
young  people,  far  and  near,  from  the  grounds  in  the 
bottom  of  the  tea-cup,  after  she  had  had  the  pleasure 
of  drinking  the  tea,  than  to  knit  stockings  at  threepence 
a  pair,  to  cover  the  feet  of  spalpeens  from  Malin  Head 
to  Cape  Clear,  who  didn't  care  a  thraneen  for  all  the  tea 
that  ever  was  brewed. 

Molly  knew  better  than  to  advertise  her  business,  for 
the  Church  was  against  fortune-telling,  and  the  Church 
was  a  powerful  factor  in  Connemara.  That  she  car- 
ried on  a  good  business  in  private,  was  no  secret.  Young 
girls,  sensible,  middle-aged  women,  ay,  even  men,  climbed 
the  mountain  path  to  her  cabin,  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening, 
and  exchanged  their  hard-earned  money  for  some  very 
misty  information,  communicated  between  many  nods, 
winks  and  nudges,  and  mysterious  twirlings  of  the  cup 
from  one  hand  to  the  other. 


MOLLY  DOWD  185 

For  a  shilling  she  told  a  fine  fortune,  for  sixpence  a 
fair  one,  and  for  a  penny  (and  bring  your  own  tea,  and 
no  inferior  kind  either)  she  told  as  good  as  could  be 
expected.  That  Molly  could  give  points  on  the  past  of 
her  neighbors  ought  to  have  surprised  nobody ;  that  she 
could  foretell  things  ought  not  to  have  seemed  very 
strange.  She  was  a  shrewd  woman,  and  from  her  home, 
that  sat  on  the  side  of  the  mountain  like  an  eagle's  eyrie, 
daily  observation  had  given  almost  prophetic  insight  into 
the  future  of  the  people  in  the  valley  below.  Their  live- 
lihood depended  upon  the  condition  of  the  elements. 
With  the  picturesque  but  barren  stretch  of  country  at 
her  feet,  where  a  little  of  farming  and  a  good  deal  of 
fishing  constituted  the  work  of  the  people,  she  could  tell 
almost  to  the  minute  when  changes  expected  and  un- 
expected would  occur. 

She  knew  when  a  school  of  herring  was  on  its  way  by 
the  peculiar  shades  and  movement  of  the  water.  She 
knew  better  than  the  fishermen  at  what  minute  a  storm 
was  due,  and  better  than  the  farmers  when  the  worm 
was  on  its  way  to  the  heart  of  the  potatoes.  To  the 
distillers,  (who  were  not  willing  to  pay  tribute  to  the 
Crown  on  every  gallon  of  the  stuff  extracted  from  their 
own  corn),  she  could  give  valuable  information  of  the 
next  visit  from  the  gauger,  and  many  believed  that  she 
treated  the  gaugers  with  equal  fairness. 

She  could  tell  the  girls  when  the  soldiers  would  occupy 
the  neighboring  barracks,  and  though  none  of  them  ap- 
proved very  highly  of  the  Queen  or  her  government  under 
which  they  lived,  still  it  would  be  contrary  to  feminine 
nature  to  withstand  the  charms  of  a  military  uniform, 
whether  it  be  worn  by  a  friend  or  enemy. 


186  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"What  can  th'  poor  sojers  do?"  Molly  would  ask. 
"Arrah,  d'ye  expect  'em  to  feesh  for  sammon  an'  sell  'em 
for  a  penny  apiece,  or  plant  potatoes  on  th'  edge  of  a 
rock,  when  they  have  th'  prospect  of  a  grand  passage 
across  th'  says  to  counthries  where  th'  bread  grows  on 
th'  threes,  ready  to  be  gathered,  an'  gold  can  be  had  for 
th'diggin'?" 

Molly  was  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  Father  Tom,  but  she 
seemed  to  thrive  on  the  displeasure  of  the  powers  that 
be,  either  lay  or  clerical.  She  grew  fatter  and  rounder 
every  day,  and  drank  her  "tay"  at  every  opportunity. 
Father  Tom  laid  every  trouble  in  the  parish,  especially 
with  the  young  people,  at  her  door,  but  he  could  prove 
nothing.  When  a  girl  refused  a  good  match,  or,  not 
daring  to  refuse  what  her  father  and  mother  had  been 
at  such  pains  to  pave  the  way  for,  accepted  him  as  a 
matter  of  course  and  then  disappeared  with  a  smart-look- 
ing soldier  or  any  other  sweetheart  on  the  eve  of  the 
wedding,  the  priest  blamed  Molly. 

That  a  girl  of  twenty,  or  maybe  eighteen,  should  prefer 
a  young  man  of  no  prospects  at  all  to  a  solid,  middle-aged 
farmer  with  a  well-stocked  farm,  or  a  weather-beaten 
fisherman  who  owned  his  own  boat,  was  a  mystery  to  him. 
Molly  and  her  cup-tossing  were  the  cause  of  it  all,  he 
was  certain.  But  how  was  he  to  convict  her?  He  had 
no  real  proof  of  her  guilt.  None  would  commit  herself, 
and  hereby  hangs  my  tale. 

It  is  said  that  even  the  devil  is  not  as  bad  as  he  is 
painted.  The  people  of  Connemara  gave  Molly  credit 
for  some  good  qualities,  if  Father  Tom  didn't.  Her 
enemies  declared  that  she  was  in  league  with  the  "ould 
boy,"  while  her  friends,  and  she  had  a  few,  admitted  that 


MOLLY  DOWD  187 

there  was  a  "good  turn  in  her,"  and  that  "all  th'  throuble 
wid  her  was  a  sthrong  wakeness  fer  tay,"  while  the 
priest  clinched  the  argument  by  saying  that  a  "sthrong 
likin'  fer  tay"  was  equivalent  to  being  in  league  w.ith  the 
devil,  for  with  tea  at  sixteen  shillings  a  pound,  it  was  only 
by  being  in  league  with  the  prince  of  darkness  that  she 
could  obtain  it. 

Marriages  are  said  to  be  made  in  heaven,  but  Molly 
was  blamed  for  a  few  made  in  the  Valley,  though  the 
knot  was  tied  in  distant  parishes,  thus  depriving  their 
own  pastor  of  his  lawful  fee,  which  was  another  score 
laid  up  against  Molly.  Things  had  been  going  from  bad 
to  worse.  Mothers  who  had  been  foiled  in  their  ambition 
for  their  daughters  by  the  undercurrent  of  romance 
brought  into  active  life  through  the  fostering  care  of  the 
stout  cup-tosser,  made  loud  complaint  to  Father  Tom. 

The  reverend  gentleman  thought  things  over  for  some 
time,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  would  take  a 
hand  in  the  fortune-telling  business  and  start  with  "the 
wise  woman  of  Croaghnakeela" — Molly  herself. 

It  is  no  easy  matter  for  a  priest  to  disguise  himself, 
especially  in  his  own  parish,  no  matter  how  sparsely 
settled.  Sharp  is  a  very  tame  word  to  express  the  eyes 
that  note  the  smallest  detail  of  his  personal  appearance. 
As  years  roll  by,  and  gray  hairs  begin  to  show  among 
the  raven  or  chestnut  locks,  they  are  counted  and  sadly 
commented  on,  as  tributes  to  the  inexorable  hand  of  time, 
which  spares  no  one,  not  even  the  young  man  who  came 
among  them  with  the  odor  of  the  "  Holy  Anointin'  "  still 
fresh  on  his  brow.  I  am  speaking  now  of  favorite  pas- 
tors, men  who  in  bad  times  and  good  times  have  shown 
themselves  truly  the  friends  of  the  people,  not  those  whose 


188       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

whole  duty  in  life  seemed  to  be  the  accumulation  of 
money. 

Father  Tom,  in  spite  of  his  occasional  attacks  on  social 
customs,  often  considered  outside  his  jurisdiction,  was 
a  favorite.  He  was  generally  regarded  with  the  awe 
which  children  often  regard  a  severe  parent,  but  who 
cannot  deny  that  he  is  acting  for  their  best  interests  and 
that  love  is  the  foundation  of  his  severity. 

Molly  was  the  only  one  with  whom  Father  Tom  could 
venture  on  any  disguise.  She  never  was  seen  at  the 
little  chapel  in  the  Valley  where  Mass  was  said  every 
alternate  Sunday,  and  when  he  made  his  periodical  calls, 
she,  for  reasons  of  her  own,  made  herself  very  scarce. 

The  muffled  and  booted  and  bearded  individual  who 
mounted  the  stout  little  pony  on  that  balmy  summer's 

evening,  was  as  unlike  the  B pastor  as 

possible.  The  moon  was  just  emerging  from  behind 
a  cloud  as  the  pony,  panting  and  foaming,  stood  under 
the  spur  of  the  mountain  on  which  Molly's  cabin  nestled. 
The  adjacent  hills,  low  and  rounded,  and  clustered  to- 
gether like  young  girls  peeping  over  their  shoulders  at 
him,  were  glistening  in  the  moonlight.  A  thrush  was 
singing  her  very  heart  out  in  a  bush  nearby,  and  the 
scent  from  the  trailing  arbutus  at  his  feet  would  have  in- 
toxicated the  soul  of  a  poet,  but  Father  Tom  was  as  little 
of  a  poet  as  Molly  herself,  and  noticed  these  not  at  all. 
His  thoughts  were  on  his  errand,  and,  tethering  his  pony 
to  a  strong  sapling,  he  reconnoitered  cautiously. 

The  fortune-teller  was  at  home,  for  a  light,  a  very 
faint  one,  was  shining  through  the  small  diamond-shaped 
panes  of  glass  covered  by  the  rose-bushes  that  almost  hid 
the  cabin  from  view.  It  was  a  pretty  little  home  and 
neatly  kept. 


MOLLY  DOWD  189 

He  tried  the  door.  It  was  bolted.  This  was  against 
all  the  unwritten  laws  of  Connemara,  for  among  the  vir- 
tues the  first  was : 

"Leave  your  door  always  on  the  latch,  lest  the  belated 
and  the  traveler  suffer.  Rake  your  fire,  but  do  not  put 
it  out,  that  the  stranger  may  warm  himself.  Leave  some 
fresh  water  and  some  food  within  reach,  that  the  stranger 
may  not  famish." 

Molly  was  afraid  of  nothing,  the  visitor  reflected, 
then  why  did  she  lock  the  door  ?  Yes,  Molly  was  afraid, 
and  with  very  good  reason — afraid  of  Father  Tom.  At 
this  the  priest  laughed  so  loud  that  he  was  afraid  of 
being  overheard.  On  second  thoughts  he  concluded  that 
evening  was  Molly's  busiest  time,  that  her  customers  de- 
sired privacy,  and  that  she  was  probably  telling  fortunes 
now,  and  keeping  the  front  door  shut  on  one  set  while 
she  was  giving  the  others  a  chance  to  disappear  through 
the  back.  Oh!  if  he  could  only  catch  them!  At  this 
thought  he  ran  round  the  cabin,  but  everything  was  as 
still  as  death.  He  saw  nothing  but  the  moonlit  path  and 
the  running  stream. 

His  next  step  was  to  advance  cautiously  and  peep 
through  the  window.  The  sight  he  saw  was  cheerful 
enough.  A  clean  kitchen  with  a  small  turf  fire  blazing 
on  the  hearth  and  throwing  into  strong  relief  a  settle 
bed,  a  dresser  with  a  number  of  shining  dishes,  and  a 
table,  covered  with  a  white  cloth.  Molly  was  standing 
at  the  table,  thoughtfully  drinking  tea.  She  replenished 
her  cup  from  a  smart-looking  teapot  that  stood  on  the 
hob,  her  voluminous  cap-borders  seeming  to  quiver  in 
the  firelight  as  she  did  so.  Father  Tom  growled,  and 
passed  his  fingers  tenderly  along  the  edge  of  a  neat 
shillalah  which  he  carried  under  his  arm. 


190  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

Returning  to  the  door,  he  gave  a  timid  knock.  No 
answer. 

He  waited  and  knocked  again.  This  time  he  heard  a 
movement,  and  Molly's  voice  demanding  his  business,  but 
the  door  was  not  opened. 

The  dialogue  that  followed  would  have  amused  as  well 
as  puzzled  a  stranger,  for  while  Father  Tom  spoke  with 
the  rich,  musical  Connaught  brogue,  Molly,  who  came 
from  Donegal,  carried  on  her  tongue  the  sharp,  crisp 
tones  of  the  North,  which  seemed  to  pierce  the  night  air 
and  fall  on  it  like  pebbles  on  a  rocky  coast. 

"Is  this  th'  village  of  Kilkeiran?"  asked  Father  Tom, 
in  a  disguised  voice. 

"It  is,"  answered  Molly,  without  opening  the  door. 

"Arrah,  do  ye  call  this  Connemara  hospitality,  me 
good  woman,  boltin'  th'  door  on  a  sthranger?" 

"I'm  a  lone  woman,"  replied  Molly,  "an'  dinna  care  to 
lave  me  door  to  th'  public.  Go  down  a  mile  furder  an' 
ye'll  find  th'  hoose  of  Pete  Grady,  a  sthrong  mon." 

"I'm  not  lookin'  for  a  sthrong  man,  me  good  woman, 
I'm  lookin'  for  Molly  Dowd." 

"An'  for  wha  air  ye  speerin'  at  this  'oor  of  th'  nicht, 
ma  guid  mon?" 

"A  little  business,  me  dear  woman,  a  little  business." 

"An*  what  may  be  th'  beezness,  ma  guid  mon?" 

"Hem!  Hem!  I  heard  that  she  was  quite  a  hand  to 
toss  th'  cups." 

"Wha  tell't  ye,  wha  tell't  ye?" 

"Those  who  know,"  answered  the  priest.  "Ye'll  oblige 
me  if  ye  direct  me  to  her  house." 

"Them  that  dance  must  pay  th'  piper,"  interposed 
Molly. 


MOLLY  DOWD  191 

"I'm  willin'  to  pay.     Are  th'  charges  high?" 

"That  depends,  ma  guid  mon,  that  depends.  It's  a 
shillin'  to  some,  an'  saxpence  to  others." 

"Well,  I'm  willin'  to  pay.  I  didn't  come  on  me  errand 
wid  an  empty  pocket,  knowin'  full  well  that  I  wouldn't 
be  welcome." 

"Beezness  is  beezness,"  quoth  Molly.  "I'm  Molly 
Dowd,  an'  if  yer  th'  mon  I  tak'  ye  for,  there's  dacency 
ahint  ye.  Bide  till  I  get  th'  kay." 

"A  kay?"  echoed  the  priest.  "Whoever  heard  of  a  kay 
in  Connemara  ?  Tis  afeard  ye  are,  so  it  is." 

"I  am  that.  I  may  as  well  own  it,  I'm  afeard  of  on'y 
one  mon  in  th'  whole  worl'." 

"An'  who  is  th'  man,  me  good  woman?  Arrah,  it's 
a  shame  for  a  brave  woman  like  yerself  to  be  afeard." 

"Whisth,  whisth !"  said  Molly,  as  she  opened  the  door. 
"It's  little  ye  know  what  yer  talkin'  aboot,  ma  guid  mon. 
'Tis  Father  Tom  I'm  afeard  of.  Father  Tom  McDer- 
mott.  Did  ye  ever  hear  tell  of  him?  Ye  must  be  frae 
th'  Bay  ahint ;  but  shure  he's  known  at  th'  Bay.  He's  a 
hard  mon  to  dale  wi',  a  hard  mon  to  be  agin  ye." 

"An'  what  is  he  agin  ye  for?" 

"Juist  for  tossin'  th'  cups,  sorra  a  hait  else.  A  couple 
of  th'  girls  ran  away  wi'  the  sojers  frae  th'  barracks 
ahint  an'  of  coorse  I'm  blamed  for  that,  though  they 
were  marrit  all  right  an'  sent  their  lines  home.  Two 
more  of  them  gaed  awa  last  spring,  but  they  never  got 
their  merrige  lines  an'  they  bided  in  Lon'on  an'  of 
coorse  I'm  blamed  for  that.  I  tell  ye,  ma  guid  mon,  that 
th'  colleens  will  go  wi'  th'  sojers,  Molly  Dowd  or  no 
Molly  Dowd." 

"To  business,  me  good  woman,  to  business!    I'm  in 

13 


192  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

a  hurry.  I'm  anxious  to  return  home.  Do  ye  tell  for- 
tunes be  th'  cards  ?" 

"I  do,"  said  Molly.  "I  cut  th'  cards  for  ma  frien's 
sometimes,  but  I  can  do  betther  wi'  th'  tay.  Before  I  lay 
ma  han's  on  ayther  cards  or  taycup  I  want  ye  to  tak'  yer 
oath  that  ye  won't  mention  a  word  of  this  to  Father 
Tom." 

"On  a  Bible  or  prayer-book?"  interrogated  the  visi- 
tor. 

"There  isna  such  a  thing  in  ma  hoose.  I  lost  ma 
prayer-book  long  ago.  Ah,  shure  'tis  little  time  I  hae 
for  prayer-books  or  Bibles.  Na,  na,  I  want  ye  to  promise 
me  on  yer  word  that  ye'll  kape  saycret  everything  that 
passes  here,  especially  frae  Father  Tom." 

"I  promise  that  Father  Tom  will  never  know  anything 
more  from  me  than  he  knows  already." 

"Well,  as  that's  settled,"  said  Molly,  "we'll  thry  th' 
tay.  Do  ye  wish  it  tould  frae  fresh  tay  ?" 

"Why  fresh  tay?"  inquired  the  priest;  "what's  th' 
difference  ?" 

"Saxpence  extray,"  said  the  fortune-teller,  willing  to 
bleed  such  a  soft  gull  to  the  uttermost. 

"Well,  let  it  be  fresh  tay,"  said  the  priest;  "but  be 
quick  about  it.  I  can't  stay  long." 

"I've  seen  that  mon  somewhere  before,"  said  Molly  to 
herself,  as  she  carefully  emptied  the  contents  of  the 
little  teapot  on  the  hob  into  a  bowl  and  replenished  it 
from  a  smart-looking  caddy.  "He's  a  daler"  (trader) 
"of  some  sort,  an'  looks  mair  like  a  cattle  man  frae  Ros- 
common  than  a  fellow  lookin'  for  a  boat-load  of  salmon, 
or  a  load  of  stockin's.  Whatever  he  is,  I  like  his  talk. 
He's  not  afeard  of  payin'  for  what  he  wants.  He's 


MOLLY  DOWD  193 

not  a  gintleman"  (a  man  of  leisure)  "for  he  has  th'  cut 
of  beezness." 

Molly  helped  herself  to  the  tea,  offering  her  customer 
a  cup,  which  he  refused.  Nothing  delighted  Molly  so 
much  as  to  drink  tea  at  someone's  expense.  She  was 
completely  happy  as  she  sat  there  with  a  twinkle  in  her 
round  eyes,  set  like  a  pair  of  gooseberries  in  her  expan- 
sive countenance,  and  watched  her  customer  for  a  clue  on 
which  to  start  her  tale.  A  rushlight  and  an  odd  flash 
from  the  blazing  sod  did  not  throw  much  that  was 
valuable  in  her  way.  He  was  big,  burly,  and  prosperous- 
looking,  as  a  farmer  or  a  drover  might  be.  He  was  cer- 
tainly a  stranger,  and  yet  there  was  something  familiar 
about  him. 

She  sipped  her  tea  slowly  to  gain  time,  and  at  last 
felt  sure  that  she  was  on  the  right  track. 

"There  are  some  fine  farms  'ateen  here  an'  Galway 
City,"  she  ventured,  to  draw  him  out. 

"Thrue  for  ye,  ma'am,  an'  very  different  soil  to  what 
ye  have  in  Connemara,"  he  replied. 

"He's  a  farmer  frae  ahint  Lough  Corrib  an'  is  lookin' 
for  something  a  wife,  maybe.  He's  not  a  young  mon, 
though,"  thought  Molly,  and  then  turning  the  empty  cup 
from  hand  to  hand  she  proceeded  to  count  the  leaves  at 
the  bottom. 

"Ye  hae  a  large  fam'ly,  sir."  This  was  a  wide  guess, 
and  Molly  trembled  while  she  awaited  his  reply. 

"I  have,  ma'am,"  replied  the  priest,  thinking  of  his 
large  and  scattered  parish. 

"He's  a  widower,"  thought  Molly,  and  then  aloud, 
"Ye  hae  na  wife." 

"Thrue  again,  ma'am,"  assented  the  priest. 


194  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

This  was  another  wide  guess,  and  Molly  was  more 
than  delighted  at  the  result.  She  fairly  beamed.  What 
with  the  fragrant  beverage  she  was  imbibing,  the  warmth 
from  the  smoldering  fire,  and  the  satisfactory  way  in 
which  she  was  elucidating  every  point,  she  was  all  aglow. 
Here  was  a  chance  to  make  some  money  in  the  match- 
making line.  It  would  be  worth  a  guinea  at  least  to 
hunt  up  a  fine,  strong  wife  for  him,  who  would  take  care 
of  his  children  and  do  the  work  of  two  servants  besides, 
just  for  her  board  and  clothes.  She  must  sound  him  as 
to  his  means. 

"Ye  hae  a  guid  hoose,"  she  said  again,  as  if  she  saw 
it  at  the  bottom  of  the  cup. 

"I  have,  ma'am,"  replied  the  visitor,  "an'  something 
to  eat,  but  not  much  money." 

"That's  how  all  these  old  codgers  talk,"  thought  Molly, 
"when  they're  just  loaded  down  wi'  th'  cash;"  and  then, 
paving  the  way  for  her  proposition,  she  continued,  still 
reading  from  the  cup,  "Ye  hae  throuble  wi'  yer  fam'ly." 

"Ye've  sthruck  it  again,  ma'am,  I  have  throuble  wid 
one  member  of  me  family  in  particular,  an'  that  one  de- 
serves a  thrashin'  three  times  a  day,"  (alluding  to  her- 
self). 

"By  gaen  them  a  step-mither  ye'd  be  spared  a'  throuble 
in  that  line,"  said  the  fortune-teller. 

"I  prefer  to  do  me  own  thrashin',"  said  the  priest,  with 
a  glance  at  his  shillalah;  "there's  more  satisfaction  in 
it,  an'  no  complainin'  afther." 

"Well,  but  a  fine  lookin',  sthrong  young  woman 
would  help  to  keep  them  in  ordher  an'  save  ye  money." 

"But  where  will  I  get  her?"  asked  the  priest.  "Who'd 
be  willin'  to  come  an'  work  for  my  thankless  crowd  ?" 


MOLLY  DOWD  195 

"Plenty,"  said  Molly,  eagerly,  "plenty.  Wha  is  there 
for  half  th'  girls  in  Croaghnakeela  an'  indeed  in  all  th' 
other  parts  of  this  wild  disthrick  who  hae  na  fortunes, 
but  to  knit  sthockin's  nearly  a  yard  long  for  thruppence 
a  pair  ?" 

"I  bet  a  shillin'  ye  didn't  knit  many  sthockin's  in 
yer  time,"  said  the  priest. 

"Ye  bet  right,"  replied  Molly.  "I'd  rather  toss  th' 
cups,  ma  guid  mon.  Father  Tom  is  mad  wi'  me  for 
tellin'  fortunes.  How  would  he  like  to  be  knittin'  sthock- 
in's himself  ?  Arrah,  I  think  I  see  him !  Tis  very  few 
dinner  parties  he  could  gie  to  his  frien's,  eyah,  eyah!" 

"She's  an'  out  an'  out  reprobate,"  muttered  the  dis- 
guised clergyman  to  himself.  "She's  worse  than  I 
thought  she  was."  And  then,  aloud,  "But  then  ye'll 
want  something  for  yer  throuble." 

"  Beezness  is  beezness,  an'  yer  too  much  of  a  gintleman 
to  refuse  me  ma  fee.  A  guinea  I'm  shure  wouldna  be 
too  high  for  ma  throuble." 

"An'  then  there's  th'  marriage  money,  or  are  th'  Con- 
nemara  girls  particular  about  th'  ceremony " 

"Look  here,  ma  mon,"  said  the  fortune-teller,  after  a 
pause,  "what  are  ye  speerin'  aboot?  Is  that  all  ye  ken 
aboot  th'  Connemara  lasses?  Where  did  ye  come  frae? 
Don't  ye  attempt  to  clash  that  way  wi'  any  of  them,  or 
ye  will  get  th'  broad  end  of  a  churn-dash  aboot  yer  ears. 
They  must  hae  their  merrige  lines.  A  girl  might  run 
awa'  wi'  a  sojer  as  far  as  th'  next  parish,  but  if  she's 
fooled  she  never  comes  hame.  Dishonor  manes  deeth 
to  a  Connemara  girl,  an'  a  great  dale  mair  than  deeth. 
It  means  that  she  can  never  be  seen  in  th'  place  of  her 
birth,  nor  behold  th'  faces  of  her  fayther  an'  mither. 
Thry  again,  ma  mon !" 


196       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Yer  fee  an'  marriage  money  will  be  too  much,"  re- 
joined the  visitor,  slowly.  "They  say  th'  clergy  along 
th'  coast  charge  a  tidy  sum  for  marryin'  a  couple." 

"But  I  ken  a  way  to  circumvent  that,"  interrupted 
Molly,  who  delighted  in  long  words.  "Father  Torn  is 
na  frien'  of  mine,  an'  I'm  na  frien'  of  his,  an'  I  hae  na 
intentions  of  puttin'  anything  in  his  way.  There's  a 
manes  of  gettin'  things  done  raisonaftle  an'  all  right,  at 
th'  same  time  wi'oot  lettin'  Father  Tom  know  anything 
aboot  it.  I  ken  a  priest — a  suspended  one,  suspended  all 
on  account  of  a  wee  dhrop  of  dhrink,  poor  mon — who  will 
tie  th'  knot  for  a  thrifle,  an'  tie  it  as  well  as  th'  Bishop 
of  Tuam.  Once  a  priest,  ye  ken,  a  priest  forever,  ac- 
cordin'  to  th'  ordher  of  Melchisel.  When  it's  done,  it's 
done,  an'  th'  girl  gaes  awa',  wha's  beezness  is  it?  She 
willna  be  in  Father  Tom's  parish,  anyway." 

The  visitor  growled  out  a  few  words  that  Molly  did 
not  catch.  "Ye  seem  to  know  th'  Scripture  very  well, 
me  good  woman,"  he  said  aloud.  "An'  now  hurry  up 
an'  earn  yer  guinea.  At  what  time  must  I  come  again?" 

Molly  named  that  day  week,  and  stood  ready  to  receive 
her  shilling  and  sixpence,  but  the  man  did  not  show  any 
signs  of  paying  the  money  or  of  going. 

He  reached  his  hand  for  the  cup  and  proceeded  to  twirl 
it  between  his  hands  as  he  had  seen  Molly  do. 

"I'm  a  fortune-teller,  too,  me  dear  woman.  I  can  tell 
be  th'  cards  or  th'  cup,  an'  now  I'll  tell  yours." 

"Ye  will,  will  ye,  indeed?"  gasped  Molly,  becoming 
alarmed  for  her  fee.  "Now,  Misther  Impudence,  gie  me 
ma  money,  an'  gae." 

"Molly,  ye'll  cry,"  continued  the  priest;  "Molly,  ye'll 
cry." 


MOLLY  DOWD  197 

"Will  I,"  said  Molly,  "an*  wha  for,  ye  dirty  spalpeen? 
Gie  me  ma  money  an'  gae  quick,  or  I'll  soon  mak'  ye." 

"Molly,  ye'll  cry,"  said  the  priest,  taking  no  notice  at 
all  of  her  words;  "I  see  tears,  tears,  tears  everywhere. 
Molly,  ye'll  cry." 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  astonishment, 
rage,  and  at  last  uncontrollable  fury  that  took  possession 
of  Molly.  She  was  like  a  volcano  on  the  eve  of  an 
eruption.  With  blazing  eyes,  flaming  countenance,  and 
a  hand  on  either  hip,  her  huge  cap-borders  trembling  and 
her  ample  body  heaving,  she  stared  at  the  intruder  on 
her  profession  as  he  manipulated  the  cup  and  reiterated 
his  prophecy.  At  last  her  rage  found  vent  in  a  shriek. 

"  Molly,  ye'll  cry,  Molly,  ye'll  cry,"  continued  the  priest, 
calmly. 

"Will  I?"  cried  Molly,  "will  I  cry?  Faith,  mebbe 
ye'd  greet  te"  (cry,  too),  "me  fine  bonchra"  (widower). 
"  I  hae  somethin'  here  that'll  crack  mair  than  your  sheep's 
head." 

She  ran  to  the  corner  and  produced  a  cudgel  that  would 
be  no  mean  weapon  at  Donnybrook.  Molly's  worst 
enemy  could  never  call  her  a  coward.  She  was  always 
ready  to  stand  on  the  defensive,  and  few  tried  to  play  a 
trick  on  her. 

"Didna  I  ken  ye  were  na  a  gintleman  th'  first  minit  I 
cast  eyes  on  ye,  chatin'  an  honest  woman  oot  of  her  hard 
airnin's,  ye  miserable  sneak!  Pay  me  ma  money,  ye 
beggerly  pig  dhriver,"  she  shrieked,  "or  be  th'  tare  of 
war " 

She  never  finished  her  sentence,  for  Father  Tom  had 
risen,  removed  his  muffler,  coat,  and  whiskers,  and  stood 
revealed. 


198       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

Molly  dropped  her  jaw  and  a  second  later  her  cudgel 
and  started  to  run,  but  as  Father  Tom  stood  between  her 
and  the  door,  she  doubled  back  and  darted  under  the  bed. 
Molly  was  short  and  stout  and  the  bed  was  low  and  af- 
forded her  poor  protection.  Father  Tom  used  his  shilla- 
lah  with  great  gusto,  acting  on  the  Donnybrook  motto : 
"Whenever  you  see  a  head,  hit  it."  Wherever  he  saw  a 
limb  he  whaled  away. 

Molly  wriggled  and  roared.  The  heaviest  part  of  her 
anatomy  got  stuck  between  the  dash-board  and  the  wall, 
and  when  she  pulled  out  she  received  another  shower  on 
her  head  and  shoulders.  On  returning  to  her  old  posi- 
tion the  rain  of  blows  continued.  Father  Tom's  arm 
grew  tired  at  last,  and  he  turned  his  attention  to  the 
stock-in-trade.  He  broke  the  "tay-pot"  and  the  "tay- 
caddy,"  and  left  Molly  more  concerned  for  their  loss 
than  for  her  sore  back. 

The  whipping  went  on  like  this:  "Ye're  losin'  yer 
soul  by  th'  tay,  ye  reprobat.  (Whack!  whack!)  Ye're 
sellin'  yer  soul  for  tay,  ye  ould  vagabon'.  (Whack!) 
Ye're  desthroyin'  th'  young  people  of  th'  parish. 
(Whack!  whack!)  Ye  made  more  throuble  last  year 
than  a  whole  regiment  of  soldiers.  (Whack!  whack!) 
Ye've  put  up  th'  girls  to  run  away  wid  th'  soldiers  an' 
break  their  mothers'  hearts,  ye  ould  bundle  of  fraud  an' 
rascality!"  (Whack!  whack!  whack!) 

I  never  heard  whether  Molly  really  reformed  or  not. 
Her  back  was  sore  for  a  long  time,  and  you  know  the 
couplet : 

"When  the  devil  was  sick,  the  devil  a  monk   would  be: 
When  the  devil  was  well,  the  devil  a  monk  was  he!" 

She  tossed  the  cups  for  the  Misses  O'Gorman  from 


MOLLY  DOWD  199 

the  castle,  and  others  of  the  Irish  gentry  who  conde- 
scended to  spend  an  occasional  summer  in  their  own 
country,  for  the  footman  was  seen  for  hours  outside, 
holding  their  prayer-books,  and  it  is  said  that  they  re- 
stored her  tea  equipage  and  kept  her  tea-caddy  always 
replenished,  which  goes  to  show  that  morality  for  the 
rich  is  gauged  with  a  different  stick  from  that  used  for 
the  poor. 

The  story  of  Molly's  whipping  went  far  and  near,  and 
caused  much  laughter.  When  asked  by  her  neighbors 
why  she  did  not  use  her  cudgel  in  self-defense,  Molly's 
answer  is  characteristic  and  worthy  of  record : 

"Hoots,  did  ye  expect  me  to  sthrike  th'  priest,  an' 
mebbe  get  ma  arm  paralyzed  for  life,  an'  lave  me  use- 
less? Shure  I  couldna  toss  a  cup  at  all  then.  Na,  na; 
I  know  ma  beezness  betther  nor  that." 

Father  Tom  and  Molly  Dowd  are  in  dust  long  ago, 
and  springing  up  in  shamrocks  in  the  variable  little 
Island  that  shines  like  a  jewel  on  the  bosom  of  the  At- 
lantic. God  has  judged  both.  Whether  He  approved 
of  Father  Tom's  muscular  attempt  at  reformation  is  not 
known.  Whether  Molly's  uncontrollable  predilection  for 
"tay"  was  condoned  in  consideration  of  some  charitable 
acts  of  hers,  which  afterward  came  to  be  known,  will 
become  clear  at  the  last  great  day.  Maybe  the  recording 
angel  was  so  busy  recording  the  last  that  he  neglected 
the  first.  Perhaps  he  is  so  fully  employed  watching  the 
women  who  sell  themselves  for  houses,  carriages  and 
diamonds,  that  he  has  forgotten  all  about  Molly  Dowd. 
Who  knows? 


200  FATHPZR  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 


THE  STOLEN  DINNER. 

Morning  was  fast  breaking  over  Beana  McCullah,  and 
the  mists  that  had  enveloped  its  bold  outlines  were  dis- 
appearing in  the  sea.  Molly  Mullaney's  cabin,  sitting 
so  snugly  on  its  side  and  commanding  the  fairest  view 
from  Terr  Head  to  Mizzen  Head — and  that  means  the 
fairest  on  God's  footstool — was  giving  forth  hollow 
echoes  to  a  visitor's  repeated  knocks.  These  echoes  were 
repeated  in  ghostly  whispers  from  every  adjacent  peak 
in  the  neighborhood  before  being  carried  out  to  sea. 
This  proceeding  was  unusual,  for  Molly's  visitors,  being 
always  in  a  tremendous  hurry,  generally  lifted  the  latch 
and  brought  the  good  woman  forth  without  further 
ceremony,  often  obliging  her  to  finish  her  toilet  on  the 
way;  or,  failing  to  find  her  at  home,  made  haste  to  seek 
her  in  other  quarters. 

The  present  visitor  was  evidently  not  one  of  the  usual 
kind,  for  he  never  essayed  to  prosecute  his  search  further, 
but  paced  restlessly  back  and  forth.  Molly  was  the  soul 
of  punctuality  and  neatness,  and  when  business  was  dull 
the  lark  was  her  only  competitor  for  early  honors.  His 
first  song  was  usually  an  accompaniment  to  the  cheery 
tinkle  of  her  kettle,  as  she  replenished  it  from  the  nearest 
spring,  and  the  pause  between  the  first  and  second  stave 
was  in  expectation  of  her  delighted  nods  of  approval. 

The    feathered    songster's    disappointment    was    very 


THE  STOLEN  DINNER  201 

apparent  as  he  regarded  his  change  of  audience  in  round- 
eyed  wonder.  Who  was  this  man  in  faded  but  well- 
brushed  livery,  who  carried  himself  so  erect  and  knocked 
so  impatiently  and  irreverently  in  the  hour  consecrated 
to  meditation  and  song?  Finally,  like  all  artists  who 
resent  an  inattentive  audience,  he  resumed  his  flight  in 
disgust,  leaving  a  train  of  melody  in  his  wake  that  should 
have  filled  his  hearer  with  delight. 

The  visitor  noted  neither  the  song  nor  the  view,  nor 
the  sweet  scent  of  gorse  and  heather  that,  like  the  song 
of  the  lark,  was  arising  all  around  him.  Notwithstand- 
ing the  early  hour,  he  looked  more  like  a  soldier  going 
to  parade  than  a  domestic  in  one  of  the  most  ancient 
houses  in  the  country.  The  long  wait  seemed  to  make 
him  nervous,  for  he  stopped  suddenly  and  struck  his  fore- 
head. 

"Suppose  th'  old  woman  has  gone  far/'  he  muttered. 
"Oh,  Lord!  Supposin'  she  is  dead!  I  wish  I  knew 
where  she  is  this  minit." 

The  wishing  fairy  of  Beana  McCullah  must  have  been 
listening,  or  the  stranger  must  have  been  fortunate  in 
timing  his  wish,  for  the  words  had  no  sooner  sped  from 
his  lips  than  a  white  cap  seemed  to  rise  from  the  moun- 
tain path  at  his  right,  and  the  form  of  Molly  Mullaney, 
so  familiar  in  every  household  where  the  angel  of  life  or 
death  was  hovering,  came  slowly  into  view. 

"Thank  God!"  muttered  the  visitor.  "Here  she  is, 
but  how  slowly  she  walks !" 

Molly  brightened  up  as  she  saw  her  visitor. 

"Th'  top  o'  th'  moQiin'  to  ye,  Terry!"  she  called  out; 
"but  it's  a  rare  sight  to  see  yer  face  so  airly."  She 
paused,  and  the  fine  old  face  clouded  over.  "Is  there 


202       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

anything  wrong  wi'  th'  masther?"  she  continued.  "Eh, 
man,  spake  up !  It  isn't  bad  news,  is  it  ?" 

"That  depends  on  how  ye  look  at  it,"  answered  the 
man,  as  he  waved  a  letter. 

"What  is  th'  letther?  Is  it  th'  masther's  letther?" 
cried  the  woman. 

"It  is,  of  course;  whose  else  would  it  be?  I  haven't 
a  friend  on  earth  outside  of  him." 

"An'  ye  opened  th'  letther?" 

"An*  why  not  ?  How  else  'ud  I  know  who  was  writin' 
to  him — a  dirty  bailiff  or  a  gentleman?  An'  how  'ud  I 
be  ready  for  an  encounter  wid  aither  o'  them,  a  blow  for 
th'  blood-suckers  as  they  turned  th'  cross-roads,  or  a  soft 
word  for  th'  gentleman — who  meant  well,  but  would  be 
an  inconvenient  visitor — about  th'  masther  bein'  away 
for  a  week,  an'  me  expectin'  him  every  day.  In  th' 
manetime  himself  would  be  upstairs  writin'  away  for  dear 
life.  Oh,  Molly,  dear,  ye  little  know  anything  about  th' 
rale  throubles  o'  life !" 

This  was  a  mere  idle  phrase,  for  these  two  faithful  old 
servants  of  a  fast-decaying  house  shared  its  troubles 
when  they  were  heavy  and  its  secrets  when  they  were 
many,  and  made  no  sign.  They  hoped  and  prayed,  but 
were  unable  to  arrest  the  doom  that  was  surely  hanging 
over  it ;  still,  like  the  ivy  that  clings  to  ancient  walls,  their 
very  constancy,  their  very  faithfulness,  kept  the  stones 
together  and  saved  them  from  becoming  ruins.  Molly 
had  been  the  "masther's"  nurse,  while  Terry  had  been  his 
personal  attendant,  when  the  old  mansion  held  many 
servants,  and  now  he  formed  the  whole  retinue  rolled 
into  one.  He  was  in  turn  valet,  Cutler,  cook  and  coach- 
man, and  often  kept  the  wolf  from  coming  too  close  to 
the  once  hospitable  door. 


THE  STOLEN  DINNER  203 

Molly,  forgetting  her  fatigue,  was  crying  softly  be- 
hind her  apron. 

" Where  wor  ye  last  night?"  continued  the  man.  "I 
was  up  here  for  hours." 

"At  Pat  Dunleavy's,  then.  It  was  as  fine  a  boy  as 
ever  breathed,"  and  she  smiled  through  her  tears. 

"Tell  that  to  Pat,"  returned  the  man,  impatiently;  "I 
have  no  intherest  in  th'  new  son.  Here  ye  are  workin' 
for  th'  neighbors,  an'  th'  masther  in  need  of  ye  up  at  th' 
house,  an'  not  a  minit's  time  to  spare." 

"Come  inside  an'  tell  me  all  about  it.  I  can  give  ye 
a  cup  of  th'  best,"  and  she  gleefully  produced  a  package 
of  tea. 

"  Is  that  all  they  gave  ye  for  yer  night's  work  ?"  asked 
the  man,  scornfully. 

"An'  what  more  could  I  ask?  Shure,  if  they  had 
more,  I'd  be  heartily  welcome.  I  never  refuse  a  woman 
in  disthress.  How  could  I,  when  I  think  o'  th'  Mother 
o'  Christ  in  th'  stable  at  Bethlehem?  How,  indeed,  an' 
mebbe  th'  good  Lord'll  reward  me  some  day." 

"It's  a  long  time  to  wait  for  yer  pay,"  said  the  man., 
scornfully.  "But  that's  not  what  I  kem  here  to-day 
about." 

Molly  was  busy  straightening  up  her  little  establish- 
ment, in  anticipation  of  the  boiling  water.  Ah!  The 
singing  of  the  kettle  had  ceased,  and  it  was  now  execut- 
ing an  unmistakable  dance. 

"Th5  wather  is  bilin'/'  announced  Molly,  cheerfully; 
"dhraw  over,  Terry,  an'  thry  a  cup  of  tay.  It  takes  but 
five  minits  to  dhraw.  Come  on,  man,  come  on.  I'm 
shure  ye  haven't  broken  yer  fast  yet." 

"  I  don't  feel  like  breakin'  me  fast  before  me  masther," 
replied  the  man,  bitterly.  "It  'ud  choke  me,  that  it  'ud." 


204  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Shure  ye  can  get  his  when  ye  go  home.  It's  airly 
yet." 

"It  is  for  those  who  have  a  breakfast  to  eat,"  answered 
the  man,  surlily. 

"An*  th'  masther?"  queried  Molly,  shocked. 

"Hasn't  aten  a  dacent  male  for  three  days.  There's 
nothin'  in  th'  house  but  th'  remains  of  a  chist  of  male 
an'  a  few  potatoes.  It's  th'  thruth  I'm  tellin'  ye,  God 
knows!  Whisth,  whisth,  woman,  don't  cry!  Don't  let 
th'  sthrangers  know  that  th'  last  of  th'  great  O'Garas  has 
descended  to  such  poverty.  Tisn't  his  faut,  no,  no,  poor 
fellow!  Th'  estate  was  mortgaged  long  before  he  was 
born,  an'  he's  done  his  best  to  keep  it  together,  but  it's 
intherest  on  top  of  intherest,  an'  now  th'  Jews  are  afther 
him.  I  could  lop  off  th'  little  debts  by  batin'  th'  bailiffs 
at  their  own  game — I've  brought  more  constables  into 
th'  mountains  an'  left  them  there  till  they  were  most 
dead  than  I  could  shake  a  stick  at — but  I  can't  handle  th' 
Jews  wid  their  writs  an'  processes.  Th'  masther,  who  is 
as  honest  as  th'  sun,  has  been  writin'  a  book  all  this  time, 
an'  little  knew  th'  throuble  I  was  put  to  lave  him  in  pace. 
Th'  publishers  are  praisin'  th'  book  all  right,  but  th' 
money  part  is  very  slow." 

"An'  is  it  a  book  he's  writin',  just  like  any  common 
schoolmasther  in  an  attic?"  said  Molly,  indignantly. 
"What  is  he  doin'  wid  that  han'some  face  of  his?  Why 
doesn't  he  marry  some  rich  lady?  It  'ud  be  no  throuble 
at  all,  at  all.  Oh,  to  see  th'  likes  of  him  writin'  a  book ! 
Eyah !  It's  a  come  down  to  an  O'Gara." 

"That's  what  I'm  comin*  to,  Molly.  Will  ye  listen 
to  me,  woman?  Ye  an'  I  can  do  a  dale  for  him  if  we 
manage  things  right." 


THE  STOLEN  DINNER  205 

"Me?"  cried  Molly,  dropping  her  apron,  into  which 
she  had  been  shedding  tears  over  the  degradation  of  the 
"greatest  ould  family  in  th'  counthry."  "How  could  an 
otild  woman  do  anythin'  worth  while  for  a  gentleman 
like  Mr.  O'Gara?" 

"Ye  can,  an'  what's  more,  ye  must.  Now  dhrink  yer 
tay  an'  ate  somethin'.  We've  a  hard  day's  work  before 
us,  Molly;  for  th'  success  of  th'  whole  thing  depends  on 
ye  an'  me." 

"Shure,  I'll  do  all  I  can.  Tell  me  what  ye  expect  of 
me,"  promised  Molly;  but  the  hand  that  held  the  cup 
trembled,  and  she  seemed  but  a  poor  assistant  in  an 
arduous  task. 

"I  expect  a  dinner,  a  big  dinner,  a  dinner  for  four 
gentlefolks,  wid  enough  left  fer  three  or  four  servants," 
said  the  man,  firmly. 

The  cup  that  Molly  was  holding  to  her  lips  fell  to  the 
floor. 

"It  must  be  of  th'  best  quality,  cooked  an'  ready  to  lay 
on  th'  table,  for  there'll  be  no  time  fer  anythin'  but  clanin' 
th'  ould  silver  an'  layin'  a  table,"  he  continued. 

"Where,  where'll  I  get  it?"  said  Molly,  bewildered. 

"I  don't  know  where  ye'll  get  it,  but  get  it  ye  must, 
that's  all.  Isn't  there  a  weddin'  or  a  christenin',  or  any- 
thin'  goin'  on?" 

"Not  a  one,"  said  the  old  woman,  at  last.  "Not  one. 
Pat  Dunleavy's  son  was  born  only  lasht  night." 

"Th'  dinner  must  be  a  private  nathur,"  continued  the 
man,  not  noticing  the  interruption.  "  No  one  must  know 
anythin'  about  it." 

"Then  ye  want  me  to  stale  it?"  asked  Molly,  startled. 

"  'Stale'  is  a  mane  word,  an'  not  used  by  th'  gentry," 


206       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

said  the  man,  solemnly.  "When  ye  have  thraveled  th' 
woiT  as  I  have  wid  a  masther,  ye'll  know  betther  than 
to  use  it.  When  th'  Parliament  of  England  casts  a 
coveteous  eye  on  another  counthry,  an'  finds  by  countin' 
that  they're  ahead  of  them  in  th'  line  of  sojers,  they 
just  take  it,  an'  then  th'  people  throw  up  their  hats  an' 
sing  'God  save  th'  Queen,'  an'  it  isn't  called  stalin',  at  all. 
Now,  Molly,  thry  to  imagine  yerself  a  member  of  th' 
upper  class  to-day,  an'  if  ye  see  a  dinner  lyin'  'roun' 
cooked  at  all,  jest  take  it  an'  I'll  do  th'  singin'." 

"It  'ud  be  stalin'  just  th'  same,"  reasoned  Molly,  "an' 
what  'ud  Father  Tom  say  ?" 

"What  he  doesn't  know  won't  bother  him,"  answered 
the  man,  sententiously ;  "besides,  he'll  be  there  to  ate  it, 
an'  what  can  he  do  about  it?" 

"Ye've  put  a  hard  task  upon  me,  if  I'm  to  stale." 

"Listen  to  me.  If  ye  don't  get  that  dinner,  an'  help 
me  to  sarve  it,  th'  masther  must  bid  good-by  to  th'  ould 
place — his  clothes  are  now  packed — an'  let  th'  Jews 
have  it.  Possession  is  nine-tenths  of  th'  law.  If  he 
can  hold  out  for  another  few  months,  somethin'  will  turn 
up.  Fancy  th'  masther  goin'  to  America  an'  breakin' 
his  heart  among  people  who  don't  know  what  an  O'Gara 
ought  to  be." 

The  tears  were  coursing  down  Molly's  withered  cheeks. 

"Th'  tenants  have  all  left  th'  ould  place,  there's  no 
rent  to  get.  Th'  very  horses  an'  carriages  are  mort- 
gaged, an'  there  isn't  a  duck  or  a  chicken  or  a  bushel  of 
flour  on  th'  premises.  I  have  a  few  bottles  of  wine,  an' 
a  decanther  of  brandy  to  th'  fore — th'  masther  bein'  no 
dhrinker — so  all  ye  have  to  get  are  th'  aitables.  Sthop 
cryin'  an'  listen  to  me,"  continued  the  man,  with  ex- 


THE  STOLEN  DINNER  207 

asperation.  "I  come  to  ye  bekase  I  knew  ye  love  th' 
masther  like  yer  own  son,  an'  bekase  they  say  a  woman 
can  see  th'  way  thrue  a  sthone  wall,  but  not  thrue  a  river 
of  tears.  Tears  are  all  right  in  their  place.  Ye  can  use 
them  to-night.  Listen  again.  Lady  Pat  is  comin'." 

"Christ  bless  us!"  cried  Molly,  dropping  her  apron 
and  staring  at  him  with  open  eyes,  "an'  what  is  she  up 
to  now?" 

"Some  divilthry,  of  course.  What  else  'ud  bring  her? 
I  often  wish  she  was  a  man  for  five  minits,  an'  I'd  forget 
myself  an'  wipe  th'  hillside  wid  her  in  spite  of  her  wealth 
an'  title.  "Tis  a  man's  name  she  has,  an'  a  man's  nature, 
joined  to  a  woman's  spite  an'  cunnin'.  Whose  faut  is 
it  that  she  was  not  born  a  man  instead  of  a  woman? 
Her  father  was  always  in  a  rage  about  it,  and  comforted 
himself  by  thrainin'  her  in  all  kinds  of  sports.  She  can 
break  a  horse  or  a  bank,  or  a  man's  heart  widout  a  bit 
of  a  scruple." 

"She's  a  han'some  lady,"  interrupted  Molly.  "'Tis  a 
pity  th'  Lord  didn't  give  her  a  heart  to  match  her  looks." 

"She's  a  han'som  devil,"  said  the  man,  savagely,  "an' 
she  only  comes  here  to  laugh  at  th'  masther's  poverty. 
She  brought  a  lady  last  time,  an'  insisted  that  he  should 
marry  her.  Th'  woman  was  polite  enough,  but  she  was 
as  ould  an'  as  homely  as  a  nightmare,  an'  enough  to 
frighten  th'  herrin'  away  from  th'  Thrawler  in  Kilkieran 
Bay." 

"Mebbe  Lady  Pat  wanted  th'  masther  herself,"  said 
Molly,  eagerly. 

"Nonsense !  She  hasn't  a  heart  as  big  as  a  sloe.  Tia 
meself  often  thinks  that  it  is  a  gizzard  she  was  served 
out  wid  at  birth.  She's  comin'  now  on  her  way  over  from 

14 


208  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

Europe,  where  she  spent  th'  winther.  Mebbe  she  is 
bringin'  along  another  'tobacco  sign'  for  him  to  propose 
to.  Money  is  money,  Molly,  an'  if  th'  new  woman  isn't 
too  bad  lookin',  I'll  thry  an'  mek  him  take  her,  for  what 
does  she  want  but  a  title,  an'  what  does  he  want  but  th' 
ould  home  to  study  in,  an'  he  can  soon  clear  th'  debts  wid 
th'  money.  Lady  Pat's  letther  only  came  this  mornin'. 
If  he  only  saw  it,  he'd  put  a  hundred  miles  between  them 
before  night,  so  I  won't  deliver  th'  letther  till  afther  she's 
gone,  for  I'm  bound  he'll  see  her  when  she  comes,  an' 
have  it  out  wid  cruel  Lady  Pat." 

"  But  th'  dinner  ?"  queried  Molly,  anxiously. 

"Must  be  got  somewhere.  I  wouldn't  satisfy  her  to 
see  a  bare  table,  an'  business  can't  be  talked  on  an  empty 
stomach.  Lady  Pat  can  stay  th'  auctioneer's  hammer 
from  dhroppin'  on  th'  home  of  th'  O'Garas — for  she 
has  money  enough — till  th'  masther  can  mak'  somethin' 
on  his  book.  Tis  no  credit  to  her  to  see  a  relative,  how- 
ever distant " 

"Fourth  or  fifth  cousin.  'Tis  very  far,  however,"  in- 
terrupted Molly. 

"Fourth  or  fifth,  tis  no  matther,"  muttered  the  man, 
impatiently.  "'Tis  no  credit." 

"But  if  th'  worst  comes  to  th'  worst,  there's  America 
to  fly  to."  Molly's  tears  flowed  afresh. 

"Keep  these  tears  for  to-night.  If  Lady  Pat  has  a 
heart  at  all — which  I  very  much  doubt — th'  sight  of  an 
ould  servant  cryin'  for  her  nurslin'  will  soften  it — but 
ye  must  get  that  dinner." 

"Where?"  asked  Molly  again. 

"Think." 

"There's  goin'  to  be  a  great  time  at  Father  Tom's  to- 


THE  STOLEN  DINNER  209 

night,"  said  Molly,  after  a  silence.  "He  has  been  away, 
an'  th'  curate  has  invited  a  couple  av  other  clergymen 
from  neighborin'  parishes  an'  a  friend  or  two,  an'  a 
betther  cook  than  his  housekeeper  I'd  like  to  see.  She'll 
have  a  fine  dinner,  but  sure  I  wouldn't  like  to  stale  from 
Father  Tom." 

"An'  why  not?"  shouted  the  man,  delightedly.  "We 
can  kidnap  him  at  th'  coach  door, — thrust  me  for  tellin' 
him  a  fine  story  about  th'  masther  seem'  him  at  once — 
life  or  death — an'  when  he  helps  to  ait  his  own  dinner 
where's  th'  stalin'  ?" 

"An'  th'  other  priests?"  cried  Molly,  her  scruples  now 
all  gone. 

"We'll  bring  them  along,  too.  They'll  all  be  down 
at  th'  coach  to  meet  him.  Did  ye  ever  hear  tell  o'  a 
man  called  Shakespeare,  Molly?  He  was  an  aether 
chap,  an'  wrote  a  book  wid  many  a  thrue  word  in  it. 
One  av  his  sayin's  I  can  prove  by  myself.  'All  th'  worl's 
a  stage,'  says  he,  'an'  every  man  plays  many  parts.'  I've 
never  acted  on  th'  stage,  Molly,  but  I've  done  lots  av 
actin'  off  it.  I've  changed  from  suit  to  suit,  an'  from 
part  to  part,  to  give  a  chance  sthranger  th'  impression 
that  there  was  a  footman,  a  butler,  a  coachman,  a  chef, 
as  well  as  a  valet,  in  th'  house.  It  would  dhrive  an  or- 
dinary man  dizzy,  but  it  served  th'  purpose  all  right. 
They  thought  a  man  wid  so  many  servants  could  not  be 
so  hard  up.  Th'  masther,  I'm  bound  to  say,  knew  nothin' 
av  this.  He's  too  simple,  an'  too  bound  up  in  his  books 
to  care  for  any  style.  Only  for  th'  actin',  th'  mortgages 
would  be  foreclosed  long  ago." 

"But  th'  ould  Earl  can't  live  forever,  an'  th'  masther'll 
come  into  his  own,"  said  Molly. 


210       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"He'll  come  into  th'  title  an'  a  few  bare  acres.  He 
has  no  money  to  hold  it  up  wid.  Lady  Pat  has  it  all. 
Her  father  has  been  savin'  an'  investin'  for  her  for  years, 
an'  all  that  breaks  his  heart  is  that  she  won't  marry." 

"Tis  time  for  her  if  she  ever  does,"  said  Molly,  de- 
cidedly. "She  must  be  as  ould  as  th'  masther." 

"She  was  born  on  th'  very  same  day,  an'  that's 
twenty-eight  years  ago,  but  she'll  give  no  man  th'  reins 
over  her.  'Tis  Queen  Bess  she  ought  to  be  called  instead 
of  Lady  Pat.  Oh,  she's  a  devil." 

"She  may  not  be  as  bad  as  ye  think,"  said  Molly, 
standing  up  for  her  sex.  "  Many  a  woman  carries  a  sore 
heart  undher  a  proud  head.  Mebbe  'tis  crossed  in  love 
she  was." 

"Crossed  in  love!"  laughed  the  man.  "She'd  cross  a 
man  wid  a  cut  av  her  ridin'  whip  that  'ud  mention  th' 
word  to  her.  She  doesn't  know  what  th'  word  love 
manes,  nor  affection  nor  anything  outside  av  her  own 
father,  an'  they  say  she's  rale  tindther  to  him.  I've  seen 
her  bring  th'  tears  almost  to  th'  masther's  eyes  by  her 
sneers  and  gibes,  an'  dear  knows  it  wasn't  bekase  he  med 
love  to  her,  for  he  left  her  to  herself  as  much  as  pos- 
sible." 

"Mebbe  that  was  th'  raison,"  said  Molly,  quietly. 

"Tut,  tut,  woman.  Don't  I  know  they  hate  th'  sight 
av  one  another?  She's  comin'  to-night,  however,  an'  he 
won't  ask  a  favor  of  her,  but  it's  our  duty  to  do  th'  best 
we  can  for  th'  poor  innocent  lad  that's  bound  up  in  his 
books." 

Molly  sniffed.    It  was  a  poor  ending  of  a  valiant  race. 

"But  how  can  we  come  at  th'  dinner?"  asked  Molly; 
"for  I'm  shure  Father  Tom's  housekeeper  is  preparin' 


THE  STOLEN  DINNER  211 

a  fine  one.  She's  as  sharp  as  a  needle,  that  same  crat- 
chure,  an'  it'll  be  next  to  impossible  to  stale  it." 

"Don't  say  stale,  Molly,"  said  Terry,  reproachfully; 
"borrow  'ud  be  a  betther  word,  though  that  wouldn't 
suit  us  aither,  bekase  that  would  be  givin'  th'  masther 
away.  'Take'  is  th'  best  word  yet,  for,  as  I  toult  ye,  it 
agrees  wid  every  act  av  Parliament.  An'  then  we're 
givin'  Father  Tom  a  chance  to  earn  a  fee." 

"Earn  a  fee,"  echoed  Molly.  In  fact  she  was  never 
much  more  than  an  echo  to  Terry's  wild  statements. 

"Yes,  a  fee.  There  might  be  a  merrige.  There's  no 
good  in  dallyin'  wid  a  chance,  supposin'  Lady  Pat  brings 
some  'angashore'  along.  I'm  just  as  sharp  as  Father 
Tom's  housekeeper.  By  th'  time  she  an'  her  two  bare- 
footed assistants  have  th'  table  laid,  I'll  raise  an  alarm 
about  a  dhrownin'  woman,  an'  I  defy  her  to  keep  her 
curiosity  widin'  bounds,  an'  when  they're  out  investi- 
gatin'  I'll  go  in  an'  swape  th'  whole  dinner  into  me  ham- 
per, an'  carry  it  to  th'  other  side  of  th'  Bay  an'  pass  it  to 
Ned,  who  will  be  there  wid  th'  ould  carriage,  in  which 
he  will  dhrive  wid  it  like  lightnin'  to  th'  hall,  while  th' 
best  carriage,  in  charge  av  Mike  Scanlon,  will  be  waitin' 
for  Lady  Pat  an'  th'  clargy,  while  I  go  on  to  th'  manor 
to  mek  ready  for  th'  company." 

The  conspirators  parted,  Terry  to  the  decoration  of  a 
table  that  had  to  depend  on  a  prestige  of  past  dinners, 
some  fine  old  linen,  ancient  silver,  and  a  couple  of  cob- 
webbed  bottles  of  wine. 

Terry's  confidence  in  himself  was  not  misplaced,  and 
everything  went  on  as  gaily  and  smoothly  as  the  pro- 
verbial marriage  bell,  till  the  cue  for  Ned's  appearance 
on  the  scene;  but  then,  as  Terry  said  afterward,  "an 


212       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

acthor  should  have  brains,  an'  when  a  man  had  to  de- 
pend on  th'  likes  of  Ned,  he  must  stand  prepared  fer  any- 
thin'  that  might  happen." 

While  the  "corpse"  of  an  old  heather  broom,  dressed 
in  a  suit  borrowed  from  the  famed  old  nurse,  was  brought 
tenderly  to  land  near  the  house  of  the  parish  priest,  the 
greatest  excitement  prevailed  among  the  weeping  women 
on  the  beach,  prominent  among  them  being  Father  Tom's 
crafty  housekeeper  and  her  assistant. 

"Tis  Molly  Mullaney  herself,"  said  a  sobbing  woman, 
wringing  her  hands.  "I'd  know  that  cloak  in  a  thou- 
sand." 

"An'  how  did  th'  poor  ould  crayther  happen  so  unfor- 
tunate?" asked  another  of  the  mourners  of  the  passing 
breeze. 

"God  help  th'  sick  an'  th'  poor,  fer  they'll  miss  her 
sorely,"  added  a  third. 

Even  the  grim  housekeeper  was  moved,  but  she  lost 
no  breath  in  idle  lamentations. 

"There  may  be  some  life  in  her  yet,"  she  cried.  "Bring 
her  to  th'  house  an'  thry  what  a  warm  rubdown  will  do." 

"I'd  hate  to  look  on  her  dead  face,"  said  another,  "fer 
I  was  talkin'  to  her  only  yesterday."  And  she  turned 
away. 

A  handkerchief  had  been  bound  around  the  head  of  the 
broom  before  it  was  covered  with  Molly's  dainty  and 
many-bordered  cap.  This  and  the  difficulty  of  vision  in- 
cident to  tear-dimmed  eyes,  had  prevented  the  decep- 
tion being  discovered  sooner.  When  it  was  discovered, 
indignation  was  very  strong.  What  the  motive  could  be 
for  the  perpetration  of  the  heartless  joke  was  a  puzzle 
to  everybody.  The  heather  broom  was  stripped — for 


THE  STOLEN  DINNER  213 

clothes  were  valued  in  Connemara — and  the  long  cloak 
of  finest  mountain-wool,  probably  a  family  heirloom,  was 
carefully  hung  out  to  dry,  and  the  people  dispersed,  much 
mystified. 

The  housekeeper  and  her  maids  returned  in  a  leisurely 
fashion,  the  recent  incident  furnishing  a  choice  morsel  of 
gossip  for  the  ensuing  week.  There  was  a  busy  evening 
in  prospect  for  the  thrifty  manager  of  Father  Tom's 
menage,  but  she  had  taken  time  by  the  forelock,  and  had 
reason  for  self-congratulation.  Though  she  expected 
no  less  than  four  clergymen  (including  the  reverend 
pastor)  and  two  magistrates,  in  an  hour's  time,  to  par- 
take of  one  of  her  famous  dinners,  she  was  neither  rest- 
less nor  flurried.  Like  a  famous  general  on  the  eve  of 
battle,  she  could  afford  to  give  her  orders  calmly,  for 
victory  was  in  sight.  Her  dinner  was  ready,  her  table 
laid. 

Already  in  her  ears  were  jingling  the  praises  of  the 
visiting  clergymen,  and  the  gentlemen  who  dealt  out 
justice  to  the  mountaineers  and  the  fishermen,  as  they 
tasted  her  wild  ducks — stuffed  and  baked  to  a  turn,  in  a 
pot-oven  in  the  ample  fireplace,  and  the  goose,  the  secret 
of  whose  dressing  was  known  only  to  herself,  and  the 
salmon,  savoring  of  the  mountain  sloe,  from  the  leaves 
in  which  it  was  wrapped  while  boiling,  not  to  speak  of 
her  melting  custard,  and  her  flaky  berry-pie. 

This  time  the  consciousness  of  having  surpassed  even 
herself  in  her  application  of  the  delicate  art  of  cookery 
was  most  pleasant.  Nothing  more  was  necessary  to  com- 
plete the  preparations  than  to  turn  the  potatoes  that  were 
baking  and  turning  a  delicious  brown  in  the  embers  on 
the  kitchen  hearth,  and  to  make  ready  plenty  of  boiling 


214       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

water  for  the  brewing  of  punch,  the  materials  having 
been  contributed  by  a  parishioner,  about  whose  where- 
abouts it  was  not  always  prudent  to  be  too  inquisitive. 

The  two  maids  entered  the  kitchen  first,  laughing  and 
joking,  but  returned  to  their  mistress,  and  with  eyes 
almost  starting  from  their  sockets,  conveyed,  in  almost 
incoherent  words,  a  most  startling  state  of  affairs. 

It  was  now  her  turn  to  run,  and  the  sight  that  met  her 
eyes  deprived  her  for  the  moment  of  the  power  of  speech. 
The  dinner,  of  which  she  had  been  so  proud,  where  was 
it?  Of  the  ducks,  of  the  goose,  and  the  other  various 
delicacies  from  her  deft  fingers  there  remained  not  one 
trace!  The  very  potatoes  had  been  gathered  from  the 
ashes,  and  the  little  keg  of  mountain  dew  (of  mysterious 
origin)  had  disappeared  with  the  rest. 

The  dinner  was  gone,  but  where?  She  looked  at  the 
tall,  old-fashioned  clock  that  ticked  the  hours  away,  and 
found  that  the  hour  set  for  dinner  was  close  at  hand. 
Something  must  be  done  and  quickly.  The  thieves  could 
not  be  far  away.  She  ran  into  the  little  sanded  dining- 
room.  The  cloth  had  been  hastily  removed,  also  a  small 
caddy  of  tea,  a  large  bowl  of  sugar,  and  a  loaf  of  the  best 
white  bread. 

Like  a  flash  came  the  thought  of  the  mock  drowning, 
and  the  consequent  withdrawal  of  all  forces  from  the 
scene  of  action.  She  saw  it  all  now.  The  perpetrator 
of  the  joke  was  the  thief.  He  could  not  have  gone  too 
far  for  recovery,  and  the  dinner  must  be  forthcoming 
before  the  appointed  hour. 

She  was  a  woman  of  action.  She  called  on  her  hand- 
maids to  help  her.  She  ran  to  the  back  of  the  house, 
to  the  boreen,  to  the  foot  of  the  hill,  but  no  one  was  in 
sight. 


THE  STOLEN  DINNER  215 

"Run,  run  for  your  lives!"  she  shouted  to  the  be- 
wildered girls ;  "th'  thief  must  be  caught.  You  take  one 
road  an'  I'll  take  th'  other.  Call  on  every  man  you  meet 
to  help  you.  Tell  them  someone  has  stolen  Father  Tom's 
dinner." 

The  maids,  stolid  and  calm,  moved  not.  Of  what  use 
was  their  moving  in  the  matter?  The  dinner  was  gone, 
and  the  less  said  about  it  the  better.  The  "good  people" 
had  need  of  it — a  wedding  or  a  christening  among  them- 
selves, maybe,  and  what  could  any  poor  mortal  do  ?  This 
was  the  sum  and  substance  of  their  ultimatum. 

"An'  if  th'  good  people  need  that  dinner  more  than 
Father  Tom,"  added  the  speaker,  decidedly,  "  'tis  best  to 
say  nothin'  about  it,  but  let  them  have  it  wid  a  heart  an' 
a  half,  for  grumblin'  'ud  do  no  good,  but  bring  their 
anger  an'  throuble  on  th'  house  for  a  year  an'  a  day." 

It  was  no  use  appealing  to  their  respect  for  Father 
Tom.  The  fairies  were  ahead  of  him  there,  and  they 
stood  their  ground. 

The  housekeeper,  who  came  from  the  far  North  and 
knew  not  the  mystery  of  the  Connemara  mountains, 
scolded  and  wept  by  turns,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  Sud- 
denly the  grief-stricken  woman  caught  sight  of  a  sail- 
boat crossing  the  Bay.  There  was  nothing  surprising  in 
the  sight  of  a  sail-boat  on  any  of  the  many  gaps  or  bays 
of  this  deeply  indented  coast,  but  this  particular  boat  was 
made  conspicuous  by  a  many-storied  hat,  that  could  have 
belonged  to  only  one  man  on  earth. 

"It's  Ned!"  shouted  the  housekeeper,  excitedly. 

"It's  Ned!"  cried  the  girls  in  chorus. 

"That's  th'  fairy  that  stole  th'  dinner,"  added  the 
matron,  with  a  northern  sneer. 


216       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

The  girls'  answer  was  a  succession  of  shrieks,  the 
culmination  of  paroxysms  of  laughter  which  they  were 
almost  killing  themselves  in  unsuccessful  efforts  to  sup- 
press. Ned  was  a  privileged  character,  and  had  done 
many  wild  and  queer  things,  but  this  was  the  wildest  and 
queerest  of  all. 

"We  must  catch  him  before  he  goes  away  with  that 
dinner.  Girls,  girls,  for  God's  sake,  do  something!" 
screamed  the  housekeeper.  "Stop  laughin'  or  I'll  be  th' 
death  of  ye.  Sibby,  pull  out  that  boat.  We  maun  gie 
chase.  Hurry,  hurry!"  she  added,  running  down  to  the 
shore  and  tugging  nervously  at  the  fastenings  of  a  boat. 

"He's  got  too  big  th'  start  of  us,"  said  one  girl,  de- 
cidedly, "unless  one  of  us  takes  th'  gap  in  th'  corrach, 
an'  meets  him  at  th'  cross,  an'  houlds  him  there  till  th' 
rest  come  up  in  th'  boat." 

"I'd  like  to  see  th'  one  that  could  hould  Ned,"  said 
Sibby;  "but  I'm  th'  strongest,  an'  I'll  thry  it.  Ye  two 
come  on  in  th'  boat  so  as  to  carry  back  th'  dinner." 

While  she  was  talking  Sibby  cut  loose  the  "corrach," 
(a  small  skiff  made  of  horse-hide),  and  shot  off  in  the 
direction  of  the  "gap,"  leaving  the  housekeeper  and  the 
other  maid  to  follow  in  the  wake  of  the  outrageous  hat 
that  was  fast  fading  away  on  the  horizon.  But  Ned, 
however  much  in  the  lead,  was  handicapped  by  the 
weight  of  a  huge  hamper,  and  did  his  own  rowing,  while 
the  two  in  pursuit  were  fresh,  and  worked  the  oars  with 
the  desperation  of  despair. 

Terry's  plans  were  well  laid,  and  had  been,  so  far,  ex- 
cellently carried  out.  We  might,  with  some  little 
irreverence,  change  an  old  phrase  and  say,  "Terry  pro- 
posed, but  Ned  disposed;"  for  a  comedy  of  errors,  with 


THE  STOLEN  DINNER  217 

Ned  as  the  hero  and  prime  mover,  commenced  at  this 
point,  and  threatened  the  demolition  of  the  whole  struc- 
ture which  Terry  had  been  at  such  pains  to  raise. 

The  old  carriage  in  which  Ned  was  supposed  to  carry 
home  the  dinner  had  been  left  unguarded  while  he  went 
to  help  Terry  to  "remove"  it.  Leaving  the  scene  of  the 
theft  by  another  route  so  as  to  avoid  suspicion,  they  met 
in  the  shadow  of  a  cluster  of  trees  at  the  landing-place, 
pulled  the  hamper  ashore,  and  proceeded  to  carry  it  to 
the  carriage.  It  was  at  this  point  that  Terry — who  was 
not  recognized — saw  that  he  was  pursued,  and  made  all 
speed  to  the  carriage,  but  the  carriage  was  gone !  Here 
was  a  fix !  The  other  carriage,  with  the  best  horses, 
was  waiting  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  for  the  accommo- 
dation of  Lady  Pat  and  the  clerics.  What  was  to  be  done  ? 
Time  was  going  and  the  housekeeper  and  her  maids  were 
nearing  the  shore.  Could  he  land  the  steaming  hamper 
in  proximity  to  the  lady's  silken  skirts,  and  make 
Father  Tom  the  custodian  of  his  own  dinner  ? 

At  this  moment  Father  Tom  and  the  clerics,  who  met 
him  at  the  coach,  hove  in  sight.  The  housekeeper's  boat 
had  been  reinforced  by  others,  the  occupants  of  which 
were  all  shouting  vociferously  and  rowing  rapidly  for 
the  shore.  In  ten  minutes  the  whole  party  would  land 
and  acquaint  the  clergyman  with  his  loss.  Terry  and 
his  henchman  were  between  two  fires.  Behind  them  was 
the  sea,  with  its  angry  crowd  ready  to  pounce  on  them ; 
before  them  was  the  priest  who  had  been  robbed  of  his 
dinner. 

There  was  no  time  to  be  lost.  Terry,  who  was  a  regu- 
lar Napoleon,  conceived  and  executed  quickly.  The 
united  ammunition  of  the  boat's  crews  were  cries,  shouts, 
shrieks  and  an  occasional  stone. 


218       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

As  a  defense  he  adopted  the  same  weapons  as  best 
adapted  for  drowning  any  information  that  might  be 
conveyed  from  the  boat  to  the  priest. 

Whispering  hastily  to  Ned,  he  bade  him  shout  at  the 
top  of  his  voice,  and  cry  lustily,  "They'll  kill  me,  they'll 
kill  me,"  and  "The  masther's  dinner  will  get  cold." 
Fearing  lest  his  protege  would,  if  allowed  to  answer 
questions,  give  more  information  than  would  suit  their 
purpose,  he  confined  him  strictly  to  these  two  sentences. 

"No  matther  what  question  th'  priest  asks  ye,  just 
shout  out  th'  same  words,  an'  when  we  get  to  th'  hall  I'll 
give  ye  cake  an'  tay,"  promised  Terry,  hurriedly.  "Cake 
an'  tay"  was  the  greatest  treat  on  earth  to  Ned,  and  he 
immediately  proceeded  to  do  his  best. 

The  next  turn  in  the  road  brought  Father  Tom  face 
to  face  with  Ned,  who  was  partly  carrying,  partly  drag- 
ging along  a  heavy,  covered  hamper,  followed  by  the 
squire's  "man,"  laden  with  a  neat  keg. 

"They're  killin'  me,  they're  killin'  me!"  shouted  Ned, 
"an*  th'  masther's  dinner'll  get  could." 

"What's  this  ?  What's  this  ?"  asked  Father  Tom,  while 
the  other  clergymen  stood  in  amazed  attention. 

"They're  killin'  me,  they're  killin'  me !"  sliouted  Ned, 
"an'  th'  masther's  dinner'll  get  could." 

"Who's  killing  you?"  asked  Father  Tom,  much  puz- 
zled. 

Ned  repeated  his  formula.  There  was  an  answering 
shout  from  the  boats,  which  were  now  nearing  land, 
but  their  words  were  drowned  in  Ned's  hoarse  cries. 

"It's  th'  masther's  dinner  he's  carryin'  home,  an'  he's 
afraid  it  will  take  could  be  raison  of  th'  delay,  fer  th' 
boys  are  tazin'  him,"  explained  Terry. 


THE  STOLEN  DINNER  219 

"The  vagabonds !"  shouted  Father  Tom,  who  abhorred 
a  cold  dinner;  "how  dare  they  take  advantage  of  a  poor 
natural,  and  so  faithful  as  he  is  to  his  master's  interests  ?" 

Another  string  of  shouts  from  the  boats,  again  drowned 
in  Ned's  hoarse  cries,  and  a  stone  rolled  close  to  the 
hamper. 

If  there  was  anything  more  than  another  Father  Tom 
detested,  it  was  cruelty.  His  charity  extended  itself 
even  to  the  brute  creation,  and  anyone  who  maltreated 
the  smallest  animal  was  marked  in  his  eyes.  Ned,  from 
his  deficiency  of  intellect,  was  doubly  entitled  to  his  fath- 
erly sympathy.  He  was  very  angry.  He  shook  his  stick 
at  the  people  in  the  boats,  and  yelled  his  denunciation  of 
their  mean,  cowardly  tactics. 

"I  know  ye  all,"  he  shouted.  "I  know  ye  all,"  which 
was  an  exaggeration,  as  he  failed  to  recognize  anyone  in 
the  boats,  "an'  wait  till  I  get  my  hands  on  ye,  ye  rascals, 
to  hound  down  a  poor  boy  who  is  only  doin'  his  duty,  an' 
all  just  because  he  hasn't  as  much  sense  as  th'  rest  of  ye !" 

Another  yell  from  the  boats,  and  a  woman's  shrill  voice, 
attempting  to  convey  some  information. 

"They're  killin'  me,  they're  killin'  me!"  shouted  Ned, 
"an'  th'  masther's  dinner '11  get  could." 

The  word  "dinner"  sounded  from  both  sides,  but 
Father  Tom  only  associated  the  word  with  Ned's  lamenta- 
tion, and  he  shook  his  fist  at  the  party  on  the  water. 

"Ye  ought  to  be  proud  of  yourselves,"  he  shouted, 
"an'  th'  women,  too.  Let  th'  poor  boy  alone,  will  ye? 
Be  off,  I  say,  an'  don't  let  me  lay  hands  on  ye!" 

The  boats  seemed  to  pull  away  in  sullen  surprise  as 
Father  Tom  was  seen  to  help  Ned  lift  the  hamper  into 
the  carriage,  and  place  the  little  keg  beside  it. 


220       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"It  isn't  th'  proper  place  fer  it,  but  we  can't  wait. 
Th'  carrige  meant  fer  th'  dinner  has  not  arrived.  This 
carrige  was  sent  fer  yer  reverence.  Th'  squire  wants  to 
see  ye  this  evenin',"  and  Terry  affected  to  look  for  a 
letter  in  all  his  pockets. 

"Well,  well!"  said  the  priest,  hurriedly,  "I'll  go  up 
after  dinner.  I  have  been  away,  an'  these  gentlemen  are 
goin'  to  dine  with  me." 

"Th'  masther  has  invited  yer  friends,  too,"  said  Terry. 
"He  wants  ye  to  dine  wid  him  an'  bring  th'  other  gen- 
tlemen." 

"But  they're  expectin'  me  at  home,"  said  Father  Tom, 
evasively,  "an'  it  will  be  a  great  disappointment." 

Here  Terry  whispered  something  in  the  priest's  ear 
which  sounded  like  "marrige."  If  there  was  any  word 
in  the  English  language  that  appealed  to  the  imagination 
of  the  pastor  of  Connemara  more  than  any  other,  it 
was  the  one  just  mentioned.  It  was  associated  with  the 
word  "fee"  and  the  widest  margin  for  speculation  was 
conveyed  by  it.  Often  as  he  had  been  deceived  in  the 
appearance  of  persons  who  had  enlisted  his  services  in 
the  matrimonial  line,  he  was  always  ready  to  speculate 
again  on  the  slightest  provocation. 

A  marriage  fee  from  an  O'Gara  was  something  un- 
usual, as  the  marriage  was  generally  performed  in  the 
capital,  where  the  bride's  friends  wished  it,  and  it  was  per- 
fectly safe  to  guess  that  it  would  not  consist  of  a  boat- 
load of  salmon,  which  he  often  had  to  give  away,  or  a 
load  of  turf  that  required  seasoning,  or  a  brace  of  wild 
ducks,  and  five  shillings  in  a  begrimed  envelope,  or  a  lot 
of  wild  promises  that  seldom  materialized. 

It  is  only  fair  to  the  memory  of  Father  Tom  to  say 


THE  STOLEN  DINNER  221 

that  he  always  cheerfully  performed  the  marriage  service, 
however  small  the  fee,  which  he  would  willingly  return 
to  the  contracting  parties,  if  he  thought  they  needed  it, 
but  the  spirit  of  the  gambler,  or  the  speculator,  which  is 
so  strong  in  many  men,  impelled  him  to  rise  to  a  feverish 
state  of  expectancy  at  the  prospect  of  a  marriage  and  a 
fee  from  an  O'Gara. 

"Who  is  the  lady?"  he  whispered  to  Terry,  in  a  stage 
"aside."  Terry  shook  his  head  mysteriously.  He  did 
not  know,  himself,  but  it  wouldn't  do  to  say  so.  Lady 
Pat  would  bring  some  title-struck  lady  along,  and  every 
consideration  but  that  of  money  must  be  set  aside. 

The  gentlemen  had  gathered  into  the  roomy  old  car- 
riage, laughingly  rejecting  Terry's  apologies  for  the  in- 
trusion of  "th'  masther's  dinner." 

"We  don't  often  cook  in  th'  house,  now,"  explained 
Terry,  "on  account  of  th'  masther's  writin';  it  makes 
so  much  throuble — yes  indeed." 

The  word  "dinner"  reminded  Ned  of  his  late  adven- 
ture, and  forgetting  the  lesson  he  had  learned  from 
Terry,  he  gave  vent  to  a  wild  succession  of  shrieks. 

"I'm  afraid  of  her!"  he  cried.  "She's  afther  me! 
She's  afther  me !" 

"He's  afeared  of  th'  cook,"  said  Terry,  "if  th'  dinner's 
cold." 

"Nonsense!"  assured  the  priest.  "She  won't  lay  a 
finger  on  ye.  I'll  see  to  that." 

"I'll  take  it  back  to  her,  so  I  will,  an'  I'll  never  do 
th'  like  agin." 

"Indeed  an'  ye  won't,"  said  the  priest,  raising  the 
corner  of  the  cloth  appreciatively.  "Th'  dinner  is  a  fine 
one,  an'  keepin'  th'  heat  all  right." 


222  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Ten  minits  in  th'  oven  will  settle  it,"  said  Terry,  who 
longed  for  a  chance  to  kick  his  assistant. 

"Let  me  take  it  back,"  wailed  Ned,  "an'  I'll  never  do 
th'  like  agin." 

"No,  no,"  laughed  Father  Tom;  "th'  dinner  is  in  good 
hands.  We'll  take  care  of  it,  my  son." 

"Don't  ye  see  that  Father  Tom  doesn't  want  th'  dinner 
brought  back  ?"  said  Terry,  in  the  shadow  of  the  hedge ; 
"so  run  to  th'  hall  for  dear  life  an'  tell  Molly  to  give 
ye  cake  an'  tay." 

With  many  speculations  as  to  the  probable  fate  of 
Lady  Pat,  Terry  jumped  up  beside  the  driver,  intending 
to  return  in  search  of  her.  Great  then  was  his  surprise 
when,  reaching  his  destination,  to  find  her  in  laughing 
conversation  with  the  master.  She  had  taken  possession 
of  the  old  heirloom  that  he  had  sent  for  the  stolen  dinner, 
and,  finding  no  driver,  had  stowed  her  maid  in  the  in- 
terior, and  jumping  on  the  box  had  driven  gaily  to  the 
hall. 

"Did  she  bring  anyone  wid  her?"  asked  Terry  of  his 
fellow-conspirator. 

"No,  only  her  maid,"  answered  Molly,  whose  eyes 
were  suspiciously  red. 

"Ye've  bin  talkin'  wid  her  an'  cryin'?"  Molly  nodded. 
"Well,  what's  th'  use  of  that  now?  She's  brought  no 
one  wid  her,  an'  there'll  be  no  marrige.  See  her  laughin' 
away.  She's  makin'  fun  of  th'  ould  carriage  she  drove 
down  in,  just  to  break  th'  poor  gentleman's  heart.  Oh, 
she's  a  devil!" 

The  dinner  was  giving  out  savory  odors,  and  the  click 
of  glass  and  silver  from  the  dining-room  were  welcome 
sounds. 


THE  STOLEN  DINNER  223 

"Mr.  O'Gara,"  said  Father  Tom,  impressively,  "will 
this  ceremony  take  place  before  or  afther  the  dinner? 
I  always  prefer  the  dinner  afther  the  marriage.  It  comes 
more  natural — as  a  kind  of  a  reward  for  work  done — 
well  done.  I  can  borrow  a  stole  from  Father  Henry." 

Molly,  who  had  entered  to  arrange  a  chair  and  pick 
up  the  lady's  cloak,  stood  in  still  amaze.  She  was  an  old, 
privileged  servant, — the  master's  old  nurse,  and  nobody 
noticed  her. 

The  master,  tall,  straight,  and  fair,  with  the  head  of  a 
poet  and  the  face  of  an  anchorite,  was  unconsciously 
making  a  picture  against  the  dark  paneling,  and  in  strong 
contrast  to  Lady  Pat,  who  stood  close  to  him  in  all  the 
dark  witchery  of  her  beauty. 

The  master's  pallor  became  more  marked  if  possible, 
while  the  lady  turned  the  color  of  the  wildest  rose  on 
Beana  McCullah.  She  looked  all  around  and  from  one 
to  the  other  inquiringly,  while  the  gentleman  kept  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  clergyman. 

"You  sent  for  me  to  perform  a  marriage  ceremony," 
continued  the  priest,  who  was  no  respecter  of  persons 
and  who  consequently  regarded  the  lady  before  him — 
fresh  from  the  most  exclusive  circle  of  London — in  the 
same  light  as  the  fishermaid  who  was  that  moment  poising 
a  basket  of  fish  on  her  head  at  the  beach.  Both  were 
women,  and  both  commanded  respect,  when  they  de- 
served it.  "You  sent  for  me  to  perform  a  marriage  cere- 
mony. Lady  Patrice  is  here,  also  three  priests,  including 
your  humble  servant,  and  a  magistrate.  There  is  no 
time  like  the  present.  Shall  I  proceed  with  the  cere- 
mony ?" 

The  master  stood  quiet  for  a  moment.    Was  this  a 

15 


224       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

joke,  or  a  wild  freak  of  his  imagination?  He  had  in- 
vited no  company.  He  had  asked  no  one  to  marry  him, 
but  with  the  inherent  quickness  of  an  Irishman,  he 
realized  that  the  moment  was  a  decisive  one  for  him. 
To  deny  all  knowledge  of  the  matter  would  throw  a  slur 
on  the  lady,  and  acknowledge  himself  a  fool.  To  admit 
it — well,  it  was  the  lady's  privilege  to  repudiate  him,  not 
his  to  repudiate  her. 

He  glanced  in  the  direction  of  Lady  Pat  and  smiled. 

"If  it  be  the  lady's  pleasure,  I  am  ready,"  he  said. 

He  waited  like  one  in  a  dream  for  the  reply,  feeling 
sure  that  fate  had  made  him  a  laughing-stock,  but  de- 
termined to  bear  his  fate  like  the  gentleman  he  was, 
realizing  that  the  present  course  was  the  only  way  out 
of  the  difficulty. 

This  mountainy  priest,  fresh  from  the  heart  of  nature, 
must  have  some  foundation  for  his  proposition.  He  was 
certainly  acting  in  good  faith.  Nevertheless,  this  was  a 
dream  from  which  he  would  soon  awaken. 

The  answer  came.  Lady  Pat  was  speaking,  and  her 
voice  was  clear,  though  low.  "I  am  quite  ready,"  she 
said. 

Father  Tom  put  on  his  stole,  after  kissing  it  rever- 
ently, and  the  other  clergymen  stood  on  either  side  of 
him,  and  the  magistrate  came  to  the  front  and  made  out  a 
paper  and  Molly  and  Terry  were  sent  for  and  stood  in  a 
state  of  stupefaction  while  the  priest  made  the  "masther" 
and  the  haughty  Lady  Pat  man  and  wife,  just  as  he 
would  have  joined  in  matrimony  the  simplest  lad  and 
maid  in  the  glen. 

Poor  old  Molly  broke  down  and  cried,  she  knew  not 
why,  and  laughed,  she  knew  not  why,  then  kissed  the 


THE  STOLEN  DINNER  225 

bride  and  her  foster  son,  the  "masther."  Terry  was 
too  stunned  to  do  anything  but  walk  around  in  a  circle 
in  the  dining-room,  and  serve  everybody  to  the  wrong 
dishes  and  to  the  wine  till  it  ran  out,  when  he  fell  back 
on  unlimited  punch  made  from  the  contents  of  the  mys- 
terious little  keg. 

Father  Tom  pronounced  it  the  best  dinner  he  ever  ate, 
and  for  the  first  time  was  not  disappointed  with  his  fee. 

The  master  went  away  in  the  morning,  but  his  wife,. 
Lady  Patrice  O'Gara,  went  with  him,  and  they  did  not 
return  for  six  months,  when  the  old  mansion  underwent 
a  thorough  repairing,  and  everyone  said  the  whole  affair 
was  just  like  Lady  Pat,  who  was  always  taking  the  world 
by  surprise,  even  to  the  winning  of  the  heart  of  Terry, 
her  husband's  faithful  servant. 

"An'  to  think,"  said  Molly,  "that  th'  masther  an'  Lady 
Pat  loved  one  another  all  th'  time,  an'  no  one  knew  it; 
an'  that  Lady  Pat  refused  several  good  offers  on  his  ac- 
count, an'  th'  masther  couldn't  see  it,  though  it  was 
undher  his  very  nose,  an'  all  on  account  of  them  silly 
books." 


226  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 


MOLLY  MULLANEY. 

"Th'  throuble  wid  me  is  that  I  can't  read  or  write," 
said  Molly  Mullaney,  meditatively,  "an'  it's  no  one's  faut. 
Me  father  an'  mother  wor  most  anxious  fer  me  to  larn, 
but  they  differed  in  their  ways  of  havin'  me  taught,  an' 
so,  bethune  them,  I  larnt  nothin'. 

"Me  father  was  a  Presbytarian  an  me  mother  was  a 
Cath'lic,  an'  both  meant  well.  He  was  full  of  his  iday 
of  his  relagion,  an'  she  was  full  of  her  iday  of  her  re- 
lagion,  an'  one  was  pullin'  one  way  an'  th'  other  was  pull- 
in'  th'  other  way,  an'  I  was  left — that  is  to  say,"  added 
Molly,  correcting  herself,  "I  was  nayther  right  nor  left. 
Th'  boys  wor  to  go  me  father's  way  an'  th'  girls  wor  to 
go  me  mother's,  but  we  all  got  mixed  afther  awhile  an' 
tuk  conthrary  sides. 

"Me  father  was  a  very  comfortable"  (wealthy)  "man 
an'  sent  th'  boys  to  a  good  school;  but  me  mother  was 
afeared  to  give  us  th'  same  chance  be  raison  of  th'  tacher 
bein'  so  bigoted  agin  th'  Cath'lics.  Be  way  of  divarsion 
an'  at  th'  close  of  every  week's  school,  he  allowed  th'  chil- 
der  to  give  three  cheers  fer  King  Billy  an'  three  groans 
fer  th'  Pope,  though  how  that  helped  relagion  along  I 
never  could  quite  make  out. 

"Me  father  was  a  very  good  man,  an'  tendher  to  me 
mother  except  when  he  tuk  a  notion  about  relagion,  an' 
then  I'm  bound  to  say  he  was  th'  soul  of  conthrariness. 


MOLLY  MULLANEY  227 

He'd  sit  up  all  night  afther  a  meetin'  at  th'  Orange  Lodge 
an'  yell  till  mornin',  'To  h — 1  wid  th'  Pope  !'  an'  then  wind 
up  be  goin'  back  on  all  th'  promises  about  th'  girls  an' 
brinin'  a  tacher  to  th'  house  to  undo  everything  done  be 
th'  other  side.  We  wor  kep'  up  most  all  night,  too, 
listenin'  to  him,  an'  larnin'  page  afther  page  of  th'  Pres- 
bytarian  catechiz — th'  short  catechiz  an'  th'  long  catechiz 
— to  say  nothin'  of  chapters  from  th'  Bible  about  th' 
'scarlet  woman'  an'  endless  dissartations  on  th'  Bible 
which  bate  th'  worl'  fer  long  words  an'  hard  manin's, 
till  we  grew  sick  of  all  relagions. 

"It  stands  to  raison,"  continued  Molly,  smoking  vigor- 
ously, "that  I  can't  be  very  sound  in  me  docthrine,  bekase 
I  got  so  mixed  up.  I  repated  th'  Presbytarian  catechiz 
fer  th'  priest,  wid  a  good  morsel  of  dissartations  thrown 
in — fer  I  had  a  good  mem'ry — an'  th'  Cath'lic  catechiz, 
wid  a  slice  from  Butler,  sayin'  that  'outside  th'  Holy  Ro- 
man Cath'lic  Church  there  was  no  redemption,'  to  th' 
Presbytarian  parson,  an'  didn't  know  th'  differ  till  I'd 
see  th'  gentleman  gettin'  purple  in  th'  face  an'  th'  childer 
laughin'.  I  go  to  Father  Tom's  church  bekase  that  was 
th'  bargin,  but  I  like  all  th'  people,  an'  don't  see  why  any 
particular  side  should  go  to  hell  just  bekase  th'  catechiz 
says  so. 

"I'm  ould  now  an'  all  these  things  happened  many 
years  ago,  but  th'  mem'ry  of  me  father's  relagious  tan- 
thrums,  an'  th'  turmoil  an'  disthress  he  used  to  cause 
while  they  lasted,  will  never  lave  me  heart.  Me  mother 
was  a  sootherin'  crature,  quiet  an'  wise.  She  was  th'  best 
manager  in  th'  county,  an'  she  let  him  think  he  was  get- 
tin'  his  own  way ;  but  when  his  relagious  spell  was  over 
an'  he  had  dhropped  to  sleep,  she  would  creep  round  to 


228       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

aich  little  bed  an'  kiss  us  tendherly,  an'  though  it  was 
too  dark  to  see,  we  could  feel  th'  tears  on  her  could  cheeks, 
as  she  whispered  th'  same  ould  prayers  an'  pressed  her 
little  crucifix  to  our  lips.  That  kiss  undid  th'  work  of  th' 
whole  session,  an'  we  wor  just  where  we  wor  before,  fer 
we  adored  th'  very  ground  where  me  mother's  little  feet 
trod.  She  wound  every  one  round  her  finger,  an'  me 
father  into  th'  bargin,  except  about  relagion,  an'  there 
he  was  as  stubborn  as  a  rock." 

I  smiled  appreciatively,  for  I  concluded  that  Molly — 
who  was  a  born  diplomat — must  have  inherited  this  trait 
honestly.  I  changed  my  mind  about  the  diplomacy  trait 
and  veered  back  to  it  the  same  night.  So  fine  was  the 
shading  between  nature  and  art  in  Molly's  makeup  that 
I  could  hardly  tell  when  she  was  acting  from  real  good 
nature  and  an  honest  belief  in  her  subject,  or  a  desire  to 
please  and  consequent  ignoring  of  disagreeable  facts. 
Either  was  good,  and  likely  to  be  appreciated  by  a  wan- 
derer in  search  of  health. 

Molly  was  a  woman  of  many  parts  and  of  undoubted 
brains,  which  had  not  been  educated  at  the  expense  of 
her  heart.  Her  recitals  and  shrewd  analysis  of  things 
in  general  made  her  deeply  interesting,  and  I  congratu- 
lated myself  that  she  was  eighty  ihstead  of  eighteen,  or 
I  would  have  been  in  danger  of  leaving  my  heart  in  Con- 
nemara. 

"When  I  was  a  girl,"  continued  Molly,  seeing  that  I 
was  becoming  interested  again,  "th'  Cath'lics  had  no 
show,  unless  ye  wanted  to  go  to  Achill  Island,"  indicating 
an  island  in  the  Bay,  "an'  become  a  jumper"  (proselyte)  ; 
"so  me  mother  sent  me  to  a  hedge-school  to  larn  to  read 
an'  write.  If  a  girl  could  read  an'  write  in  those  days, 


MOLLY  MULLANEY  229 

that  was  enough,  piano  playin'  an'  flower  paintin'  not 
bein'  considhered  at  all,  except  be  th'  people  way  up.  Th' 
Cath'lic  gentry  sent  their  sons  to  France  or  Spain  (there 
was  always  a  ship  hangin'  round  th'  coast),  but  their 
daughters  didn't  fare  much  betther  than  th'  farmers  in 
point  of  larnin'. 

"A  hedge-school  was  a  cabin  protected  be  a  mountain 
an'  a  hedge,  an'  kep'  warm  be  sods  of  peat  carried  be  th' 
childer  every  mornin'  undher  their  arms.  Th'  hedge- 
schools  turned  out  some  good  scholars,  too.  I  never 
larned  anything,  but  that  was  just  me  luck.  I  was  al- 
ways last,  an'  there  was  only  one  book  to  aich  class,  an' 
that  was  passed  round  from  hand  to  hand,  when  we 
stood  up  to  read;  an'  before  it  rached  me  it  was  always 
time  to  ate  th'  dinners,  which  we  carried  along  with  th' 
sod  of  turf  fer  th'  masther's  fire,  an'  when  we  started 
agin  in  th'  afthernoon,  it  was  th'  same  thing.  Before  me 
turn  came  round  agin  it  was  time  to  go  home,  fer  on  ac- 
count of  th'  three  miles  of  a  lonely  mountain  road  before 
me  I  had  to  lave  airly.  I  often  thought,"  added  Molly, 
reflectively,  "that  th'  masther  might  have  started  some- 
times at  th'  foot  of  th'  class,  so  as  to  give  me  a  chance, 
but  I  suppose  he  never  thought  of  such  a  thing.  He 
was  that  light  wid  larnin'  himself,  that  he  couldn't  be 
expected  to  bother  his  head  wid  a  little  colleen  like  me. 
Oh,  he  was  a  wondherful  scholar  entirely ! 

"He  was  great  on  th'  Latin  an'  Greek,  an'  figures  an' 
such,  an'  th'  big  boys  who  stayed  wid  him  an'  tuk  to  th' 
larnin',  got  lashin's  of  it  an'  whipt  all  before  them  when 
they  went  to  forrin  parts,  where  they  wor  docthers  an* 
lawyers  an'  priests.  Oh,  but  he  was  an  elegant  tacher !" 

"But  you  must  have  learned  something?"  I  questioned, 
with  amazement.  "You  must  have  learned  to " 


230       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"I  did,"  answered  Molly.  "I  larnt  to  make  ten  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  cats'  cradles,  wid  th'  aid  of  me  knuckles 
an'  a  sthring.  I  larnt  how  many  laves  there  was  on  a 
daisy,  an'  how  many  seeds  in  th'  heart  of  a  wild  straw- 
berry, as  well  as  how  many  times  I  could  skip  to  th'  beat 
of  a  rope  widout  stoppin',  an'  how  long  I  could  hould 
me  breath  undher  wather " 

"But  your  mother,  what  did  she " 

"I  could  swim  like  a  duck  an'  climb  like  a  goat,"  pro- 
ceeded Molly,  calmly.  "I  knew  where  th'  blackest  sloes 
an'  th'  reddest  bottle-berries  grew.  I  knew  where  to  tickle 
a  boy  or  girl  in  front  of  me  wid  a  bunch  of  nettles  that 
would  raise  a  blisther  half  an  inch  high,  just  before  their 
turn  came  to  read,  an'  keep  a  face  as  grave  as  Judge 
Lynch  at  th'  same  time,  an'  I  knew  how  to  run  away  from 
th'  rache  of  th'  masther's  cane  when  a  complaint  went 
in." 

"Did  your  mother  never  find  out?" 

"  She  did,  in  time ;  but  what  could  she  do  to  a  cripple  ?" 

"Oh,  the  master  was  a  cripple?" 

"An*  d'ye  think  anyone  but  a  cripple  would  sit  all  day 
an'  tache  childer,  wid  fish  in  th'  say  widin  a  rod  of  him, 
waitin'  to  be  caught,  an'  th'  kelp  on  th'  beech  waitin'  to 
be  gathered?  But  he  was  a  great  tacher  entirely.  He 
had  th'  longest  rache  I  ever  knew,  wid  a  cane  at  th'  end 
of  it.  He  couldn't  come  to  us,  fer  half  th'  time  his 
crutches  wor  hid  fer  a  week  together,  but  th'  cane  did,  an' 
it  tuk  us  often  be  surprise.  Then  agin  me  mother  darn't 
complain,  bekase  me  father  didn't  want  me  to  go  there." 

"It's  sad  to  think  there  is  so  much  difference  among 
Christians,"  I  said.  "Separated  in  life  by  a  shade  of  dif- 
ference in  belief,  separated  also  in  the  grave " 


MOLLY  MULLANEY  231 

"No,  indeed,"  interrupted  Molly.    "They're  lyin'  side 
be  side  in  th'  ould  graveyard  beyant." 

"I  did  not  know  that  the  Catholics  allowed  non-Cath- 
olics in  the  graveyard." 

"But  me  father  died  a  Cath'lic." 
"Is  it  possible?  What  changed  his  views?" 
"He  didn't  change  his  at  all.  He  just  simply  became 
a  Cath'lic  to  be  wid  me  mother.  Ye  see  she  died  first, 
an'  th'  poor  man,  fer  all  he  led  her  such  a  life,  was  killed 
wid  th'  loneliness.  He  moped  round  an'  wasn't  himself  at 
all.  He'd  walk  to  her  grave  an'  sit  beside  it  fer  hours, 
an'  there  wor  no  rousin'  him,  till  one  day  he  sickened  fer 
death.  He  called  me  over  to  him.  'Bring  me  th'  priest,' 
says  he.  'Th'  priest !'  says  I,  not  believin'  me  own  ears. 
'Yes,'  says  he  sharply,  'didn't  I  say  th'  priest?'  'Ye  did, 
father,  dear,'  says  I.  'Go  fer  him  now,  an'  don't  let  th' 
grass  grow  undher  yer  feet/  says  he.  I  didn't.  I  brought 
th'  clergyman  along  wid  me,  full  of  curiosity;  fer,  like 
meself,  he  could  hardly  trust  his  ears.  'I  want  to  be  a 
Cath'lic,'  says  me  father.  'Very  well,'  said  Father  Jen- 
nings, much  plazed  at  brin'in'  such  an  out-an'-out  heretic 
to  th'  Church,  'I  must  first  put  ye  undher  insthructions, 
an'  then  baptize  ye.'  'Baptize  me  first,  an'  put  me  undher 
insthructions  afther,'  says  me  father.  'That's  agin  all 
law  an'  ordher,'  says  Father  Jennings.  'Ye  must  know 
somethin'  about  th'  docthrines  of  th'  Church  before  ye'r 
received  into  it.'  '  I  don't  care  a  thraneen  fer  ye  or  yer 
docthrines,'  says  me  father,  hotly.  'I  only  want  to  be 
baptized  in  th'  Cath'lic  relagion.'  'Not  be  me,'  said  th' 
priest,  in  a  towerin'  rage  an'  jumpin'  on  his  pony  like  a 
flash  of  lightnin';  "not  be  me,  ye  unmannerly  heretic!" 
He  was  black  wid  th'  temper  at  th'  insult  offered  to  him- 


232       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

self,  fergettin'  that  he  was  actin'  fer  th'  meek  an'  lowly 
Jesus,  who  was  all  to  all  men.  I  tould  him  so,  but  it  was 
no  good. 

"Th'  news  soon  scatthered  that  me  father  was  dyin' 
an'  wanted  th'  priest.  His  brothers,  who  wor  quite  well 
off,  came  wid  their  own  clergyman.  'Is  he  a  priest?' 
asked  me  father,  when  they  brought  him  into  th'  room. 
'A  priest  ?'  said  me  uncle.  'Is  it  crazy  ye  are  ?'  'I  want  to 
be  a  Cath'lic,'  says  me  father.  'D'ye  want  to  go  to  hell  ?' 
roared  me  uncles,  all  together.  'Sure,  ye  know  th' 
Cath'lics  all  go  to  hell.'  'I'm  satisfied,'  says  me  father, 
'if  me  Mary  is  there  before  me.  Heaven  or  hell,  it's  all 
th'  same  to  me,  as  long  as  Mary  is  there.'  They  couldn't 
do  nothin'  wid  me  poor  father,  who  lay  there  wid  th' 
tears  rainin'  down  his  face.  Th'  sacret  was  out.  He 
wanted  to  be  a  Cath'lic  to  be  wid  me  poor  mother,  but 
th'  priest  wouldn't  hear  to  it.  'I  couldn't  baptize  a 
man  widout  instructions,'  he  said.  'He  must  know 
th'  Seven  Sacraments,  an'  th'  ten  commandments,  an' 
th'  commandments  of  th'  Church,  an'  th'  seven  deadly 
sins,  an'  th'  sins  agin  th'  Holy  Ghost,  an'  th'  Apostles' 
Creed,  an'  th'  'Acts  of  Faith,  Hope  an'  Charity ' 

"  'Ye  baptized  a  baby  yesterday,'  says  I,  'who  didn't 
know  anything  of  these  things.'  'That's  a  horse  of  an- 
other color,'  he  answered  in  a  minute.  'Th'  godfather 
spoke  fer  th'  child.'  'Well,  I'll  spake  fer  me  father,'  says 
I  in  a  minute,  fer  I  was  determined  he  would  get  his 
wish.  'Ye  spoke  of  charity  just  now,  an'  ye've  often  tould 
us  that  charity  covers  a  load  of  sins.'  'Thrue  fer  ye/ 
said  his  reverence,  not  knowin'  exactly  what  I  was  afther. 
'Who  gave  more  away  in  charity  in  th'  last  five  years 
than  me  father  ?'  I  asked.  'Did  he  ever  make  any  distinc- 


MOLLY  MULLANEY  233 

tion  bethune  Cath'lics  an'  Protestants  when  they  wor  in 
disthress,  an'  th'  blight  was  on  th'  potatoes  an'  th'  empty 
boat  had  drifted  in  afther  a  storm,  bottom  upward — to 
th'  widow  an'  th'  orphans?'  'He  never  did,'  said  th' 
priest,  softenin'.  'God  bless  him  fer  it !'  'Well,  come  an' 
baptize  him  now,'  I  said,  grabbin'  th'  pony  be  th'  bridle. 
I  was  a  sthrong,  hearty  young  girl,  wid  a  bit  of  me  father 
in  me,  an'  I  held  on  like  death.  'Come  on  now,  an'  what 
he  is  short  in  th'  catechiz,  he'll  make  up  fer  in  somethin' 
else.' 

"We  warn't  a  minute  too  soon.  Me  father  was  lookin' 
eagerly  towards  th'  door  as  we  entered,  an'  his  poor,  thin 
face  lit  up. 

"  'D'ye  believe  what  th'  Holy  Cath'lic  Church  believes 
an'  taches  ?'  asked  Father  Jennings,  hurriedly,  fer  he  saw 
th'  end  was  near.  'I  believe  in  whatever  Mary  believed 
in/  said  me  father,  firmly,  kissin'  th'  little  ivory  crucifix 
which  me  mother  had  worn  round  her  neck  so  many 
years,  an'  which  she  had  so  often  pressed  to  our  baby 
lips.  I  missed  it  fer  some  time,  little  dreamin'  that  me" 
father  would  value  so  highly  what  he  had  so  often  torn 
from  her  breast  in  his  tanthrums,  an'  thramped  undher 
foot,  accusin'  her  of  idolatry.  'I  believe  in  what  me  wife 
believed  in,'  he  repated,  an'  looked  appealingly  *at  th' 
priest.  It  wasn't  th'  proper  answer,  an'  th'  priest  hesi- 
tated. 'As  his  godmother  I  promise  to — to — see  that  he 
is  insthructed  an'  brought  up  in  th'  fear  an'  love  of  God,' 
I  added  quickly  bethune  me  sobs,  fer  th'  sight  of  me 
mother's  crucifix  had  upset  me.  'I  baptize  ye,  John,  in  th' 
name  of  th'  Father,  an'  th'  Son,  an'  of  th'  Holy  Ghost,' 
said  th'  priest,  solemnly,  as  he  poured  th'  wather  on  th' 
brow  on  which  th'  sweat  of  death  was  fast  gatherin'. 


2H4  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"There  was  a  look  of  gratitude  from  th'  dyin'  eyes, 
which  immediately  became  fixed,  starin'  at  a  point  over 
our  heads.  Such  a  happy  look  came  over  his  face,  his 
lips  parted  in  a  smile,  an'  he  cried  aloud,  'Mary,  Mary, 
mavourneen  !'  an'  then  sthretchin'  out  his  hands,  he  called 
again  joyfully,  'Mary,  Mary!'  an'  died,  but  th'  happy 
look  never  left  his  face. 

"I  believed  then,  as  I  believe  now,  that  me  mother 
came  fer  him,  fergettin'  an'  fergivin'  everything,  as  she 
always  did,  an'  God  knows  she  had  plenty  to  fergive,  an' 
I  knew  it  best — next  to  God. 

"He  had  th'  biggest  funeral  that  ever  left  th'  little 
white  chapel  in  th'  Glen.  Everyone  went  except  me 
uncles,  who  were  furious.  Th'  fishermen  came  in  their 
boats,  fer  he's  buried  across  from  th'  mainland,  an'  all 
showed  respect  fer  a  man  whose  heart  belied  his  tongue. 
There's  many  now  livin'  who  remember  th'  funeral." 

Molly's  slim,  brown  fingers  were  closed  around  the 
pipe  in  the  hand  that  hung  listlessly  by  her  side,  while 
with  the  other  she  shaded  her  eyes  and  scanned  the 
horizon.  The  bowl  of  the  pipe  was  sending  forth  a  tiny 
column  of  smoke  from  the  back,  and  on  the  stem  her 
thumb  was  acting  as  a  stop  valve. 

This  was  a  sure  sign  that  Molly  was  meditating.  She 
never  kept  the  pipe  in  her  mouth  except  when  actually 
under  fire,  and  used  it  as  a  pointer  or  gavel,  or  wand, 
or  sometimes  a  scepter,  in  illustrating  her  stories,  so  that 
it  was  impossible  to  caricature  her.  This  tall,  straight 
old  native  of  the  Irish  Highlands  was  the  embodiment  of 
grace  and  natural  refinement,  and  what  made  it  more 
refreshing  was,  she  was  all  unconscious  of  it. 

She  recovered  herself  with  a  start.     Her  apology  for 


MOLLY  MULLANEY  235 

her  momentary  absorption  was  a  compliment  to  the  to- 
bacco. 

"That's  fine  tobacco,  yer  honor,  an'  very  soothin'  to 
th'  narves." 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it,  but  you  were  not  thinking  of  the 
tobacco  just  now." 

"Thrue  fer  ye,"  returned  Molly,  furtively  wiping  away 
a  tear.  "I  was  thinkin'  of  those  gone  long  ago." 

"It  might  be  impertinent  of  me  to  ask  your  opinion 
of  that  death-bed  baptism.  Don't  you  think  that  your 
father's  faith  would  have  carried  him  through?" 

"Not  havin'  th'  larnin'  an'  bein'  so  mixed,  as  I  tould 
ye,  bethune  two  relagions  in  me  youth,  I  can't  say  much," 
said  Molly,  cautiously;  "but  it  made  me  father  happy  at 
th'  last,  an'  that  was  a  good  thing,  an'  it  gave  us  a  chance 
to  bury  him  wid  me  mother,  an'  that  was  another  good 
thing.  Ye  see,  me  father's  faut  was  in  his  head,  not  his 
heart.  His  heart  was  as  sound  as  a  nut,  an'  I  knew  it, 
bein'  th'  only  girl  that  lived  an'  was  fond  of  him." 

"And  your  brothers,  what  of  them?"  I  persisted,  with 
the  curiosity  of  one  who  is  interested  in  spite  of  himself. 

"Three  of  them  are  lyin'  wid  th'  ould  folks,  be  their 
own  request,  though  they  lived  careless  enough  an'  didn't 
take  much  thought  about  relagion  till  th'  last — but  never 
bitther  like  me  father." 

Here  a  long,  wild  "Hurru"  and  a  whistle  were  borne 
on  the  air  and  interrupted  Molly's  narrative,  while  it  was 
echoed  back  from  peak  to  peak  in  a  succession  of  musical 
notes,  altogether  novel  and  startling. 

"It's  Ned,"  said  Molly,  calmly.  "He's  warnin'  th' 
boys." 

"How  far  off  is  he?" 


236       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"About  five  miles  be  th'  road." 

"It  seems  but  a  few  feet  away." 

"It  isn't  over  a  mile  as  th'  birds  fly,  from  Ben  Bawn 
to  Ben  Coor." 

"But  Ned  isn't  a  bird,  and  I'm  thinking  he  doesn't  go 
around  by  the  road." 

"Me  little  boy  knows  th'  short  cut  over  th'  hills,  yer 
honor,"  replied  Molly,  after  a  pause  in  which  she  had 
wrapped  her  pipe  in  a  soft  wisp  of  heather  and  hidden  it 
in  her  bosom,  displacing  thereby  an  unfinished  stocking 
bristling  with  needles,  which  she  immediately  commenced 
to  knit.  Connemara  women  are  expert  knitters,  and  I  felt 
that  while  Molly's  hands  were  busy  on  the  work  before 
her,  her  eyes  were  examining  me  at  great  length. 

I  looked  up  and  met  the  clear,  keen  gaze  unflinchingly. 
In  another  minute  she  was  looking  away  in  the  direction 
of  the  Bay,  where  a  few  fishermen  were  bringing  in  their 
nets,  but  there  was  a  satisfied  look  on  her  face,  very  flat- 
tering to  me. 

"I  know  what  you  are  thinking  of,  Molly — Mrs.  Mul- 
laney "  I  began. 

"Call  me  Molly,"  said  the  old  woman,  with  a  kind 
smile.  "Call  me  Molly,  yer  honor.  I'm  used  to  it,  an* 
I  don't  think  ye'll  ever  know  what  me  thoughts  were." 

"You  were  thinking,"  I  said,  "that  perhaps  I  was  a 
detective  or  someone  interested  in  collecting  information 
of  this  wonderful  locality  that  by  and  by  would  be  used 
in  hurting  your  friends." 

"God  ferbid!"  said  the  old  woman,  quickly  and  fer- 
vently, "God  ferbid !  Oh,  that  would  be  a  mane  thought 
afther  all  ye  have  done  fer  me — puttin'  ye  on  a  level  wid 
police  an'  informers,  an'  ye  a  gentleman  an'  an  America 


MOLLY  MULLANEY  237 

man  to  boot.  No,  no ;  far  be  from  me !  I  was  just  think- 
in'  that  mebbe  th'  boys  wouldn't  like  me  to  mention  that 
me  little  boy  knows  th'  short  cut.  It  might  get  them 
into  throuble." 

"And  wild  horses  won't  draw  the  story  from  me, 
Molly,"  I  said.  "If  there  be  a  short  cut  over  the  moun^ 
tains,  I  don't  want  to  know  anything  about  it.  I'm  satis' 
fied  with  the  long  cut.  I  only  want  to  know  where  the 
wild  flowers  and  the  weeds  grow." 

For  a  moment  the  old  mountaineer  stopped  her  knit- 
ting and  looked  me  over  with  some  doubt  and  a  little  sur- 
prise. It  was  some  time  since  she  had  taken  me  into 
her  warm  Irish  heart — a  sickly  stranger  who  was  wander- 
ing her  native  mountains  in  search"  of  health — and  with 
the  inherited  good-breeding  of  the  Celt,  she  refrained 
from  asking  any  questions  relative  to  my  previous  life, 
yet  she  was  often  puzzled  as  to  the  use  I  made  of  the 
wild  flowers. 

I  had  warmed  myself  by  her  little  peat  fire  on  chilly 
days  and  dried  myself  before  it  on  stormy  ones,  while  I 
felt  the  warm  blood  creeping  around  my  heart  as  I  sipped 
the  goat's  milk  she  warmed  for  me.  In  fact,  I  sought 
the  shelter  of  her  neat  cabin  and  experienced  the  wealth 
of  hospitality,  long  before  the  thought  of  remuneration 
had  ever  crossed  her  mind.  She  evidently  thought  me  a 
little  touched,  or  "daft,"  and  it  only  doubled  her  sympa- 
thy, for  had  not  God  afflicted  her  son  so? 

An  incident  had  occurred  the  previous  week  in  which 
it  was  my  good  fortune  to  put  her  under  what  she  con- 
sidered "a  great  obligation,"  and  her  gratitude  knew  no 
bounds.  My  excuse  for  being  of  benefit  to  her  was 
founded  on  these  very  wild  flowers  she  thought  so  worth- 
less. 


238       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

Molly  was  just  eighty-two  years  old,  while  her  "little 
boy"  was  just  fifty,  counting  by  the  parish  registry,  and 
five,  counting  by  wit  and  understanding.  She  was  one 
of  Father  Tom's  three  graces  before  mentioned,  and  one, 
he  was  willing  to  admit,  of  the  useful  kind.  She  lived 
near  the  summit  of  Ben  Cullagh,  a  mountain  prolific  in 
flowering  shrubs  and  wild  goats,  or,  as  Molly  gratefully 
termed  them,  "th'  widow  woman's  wee  cows;"  and  no 
one  thought  anything  of  the  zigzag  path  to  her  cabin  until 
a  woman  was  "in  disthress,  th'  crature,"  and  in  justice 
to  Molly  we  must  say  that  she  never  refused  a  call,  though 
her  payment  often  consisted  of  a  "God  reward  ye." 

Molly  had  a  heart  large  enough  to  hold  the  people  of 
Letterfrack  and  of  every  hamlet,  not  only  of  Conne- 
mara,  but  the  whole  three  kingdoms ;  she  had,  however, 
a  special  corner,  "railed  in,"  as  the  Yankees  say,  for  the 
boys  and  girls  she  had  helped  into  the  world.  Judging 
from  the  number  of  stalwart  men  and  comely  women  that 
she  gleefully  pointed  out  from  morning  till  night,  her 
"children"  would  make  a  comfortable  standing  army,  half 
of  them  at  least  being  of  an  age  when  retirement  with,  a 
pension  is  usually  allowed. 

"There  they  go!"  she  would  exclaim,  waving  her  pipe 
or  her  knitting,  as  the  case  might  be,  in  the  direction  of 
the  distant  sea.  "There  they  go.  Them's  all  me  boys. 
See  them  manage  that  yawl !  That  red-headed  gossoon 
is  Dick  Fosther,  an'  that  black-haired  lad  fixin'  th'  sail  is 
from  th'  Killaries.  He's  a  darin'  vagabone" — this  with 
admiring  affection — "an'  af eared  of  nothin'.  He  showed 
his  spirit  when  he  wor  in  th'  worl'  five  minutes.  Ye  could 
hear  him  roarin'  as  far  as  Killary  Bay  fer  somethin'  to 
eat,  an'  he's  kep'  up  th'  demand  ever  since.  No  school  of 


MOLLY  MULLANEY  239 

herrin'  ever  gets  away  from  him,  not  if  he  knows  it.  Con 
will  return  by  an'  by  wid  a  boatful,  if  there's  any  fish  in 
th'  say,  an'  hang  on  be  his  eyebrows,  bekase  there  won't 
be  room  fer  him  to  sit  or  stand  in  th'  boat.  He's  a  good- 
natured  crature,  too,  willin'  to  give  half  his  load  away  to 
th'  first  unlucky  fisherman  he  meets.  An'  sure  he  might 
as  well,  seein'  there's  no  chance  of  gettin'  a  market  fer 
it.  Mebbe  ye  think  he's  goin'  to  upset  th'  yawl  wid  his 
thricks ;  not  a  bit  of  it,  an'  if  he  did,  he'd  walk  th'  say,  it's 
me  opinion,  he'd  walk  th'  say  an'  carry  th'  rest  on  his 
back,  he's  that  smart." 

While  straining  my  eyes  to  watch  the  subjects  of 
Molly's  raptures,  I  wondered  if  my  old  friend  was  draw- 
ing on  an  active  imagination  when  she  spoke  of  distin- 
guishing them  from  one  another ;  for  I,  who  was  scarce 
half  her  age,  could  see  only  the  dim  outlines  of  a  boat 
and  a  few  active,  brightly-colored  nets,  almost  touching 
the  horizon.  I  found,  however,  that  Molly's  sight,  like 
many  others  in  the  "Kingdom  of  Connemara,"  was  phe- 
nomenal. She  could  thread  a  needle  with  the  finest  thread 
spun,  and  hem  the  finest  handkerchiefs  without  the  aid 
of  glasses. 

"It's  th'  salt  wather,"  she  would  reiterate.  "It's  th' 
salt  wather.  Salt  is  blessed  if  ye  use  it  right.  Bathe  yer 
eyes  in  th'  salt  wather  every  mornin'.  Open  yer  eyes  an' 
let  it  go  in.  Don't  be  afeared  of  it,  an'  ye're  all  right." 

Molly's  son  was  what  the  delicacy  of  the  country  peo- 
ple called  a  "natural,"  or  "innocent,"  and  the  service  al- 
luded to  was  the  plucking  of  him  from  the  hands  of  some 
over-officious  guardians  of  the  law,  who  were  gathering 
up  helpless  and  indigent  persons  with  no  visible  means 
of  support,  and  shutting  them  up  in  the  poorhouse.  Molly 

16 


240  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

was  old  and  times  were  hard.  Her  business,  though  not 
remunerative,  was  recognized  as  necessary,  and  her  knit- 
ting-needles were  seldom  idle ;  but  her  son  was  considered 
superfluous,  and  would  be  better  off,  according  to  those 
busybodies,  in  the  asylum  for  the  insane. 

"Ned  the  innocent"  was  known  to  all  as  a  harmless 
wanderer,  and  no  one  begrudged  him  "a  bit  or  sup;"  in 
fact,  he  was  a  useful  fellow,  and  had  often  performed 
service  that  a  sane  man  would  have  had  to  be  paid  for. 
He  was  almost  as  good  as  a  telegraph  service  in  running 
errands,  as  I  had  good  reason  to  know,  and  many  times 
had  saved  life  and  property  by  his  timely  warnings.  He 
was  a  great  favorite  with  everybody,  and  when  away  from 
his  mother's  cabin,  often  for  days  together,  she  was  never 
uneasy,  knowing  that  he  was  safe,  not  only  through  the 
good  nature  but  also  the  superstition  of  the  people,  who 
looked  upon  anyone  afflicted  that  way  as  under  the  direct 
protection  of  the  Almighty.  This  last  was  proved  to  the 
people's  satisfaction  by  the  instinctive  dislike  he  showed 
to  persons  of  a  bad  mind,  or  persons  of  a  good  exterior 
who  came  sometimes  to  the  valley  for  the  purpose  of  evil. 

"Ned  doesn't  like  him,"  was  passed  from  mouth  to 
mouth  as  a  warning  against  strangers.  That  Ned  had 
taken  a  fancy  to  me  was  an  honor  I  did  not  appreciate 
at  the  time,  though  I  often  had  reason  afterward  to  be 
grateful  for  it.  To  take  the  last  "child"  from  the  poor 
old  woman,  who  was,  without  him,  quite  alone  in  the 
world,  was  the  refinement  of  cruelty,  and  her  heartrend- 
ing cries  and  lamentations  were  borne  to  my  ears  on  the 
sweet  morning  air  just  as  I  had  discovered  a  specimen 
of  the  double-leafed  hydrangea,  for  which  I  had  searched 
long  and  earnestly. 


MOLLY  MULLANEY  241 

Hardly  knowing  whence  the  cries  came  and  unable  to 
forget  them,  I  left  my  knife  sticking  in  the  earth  and 
proceeded  to  investigate.  The  mountain  passes  were  so 
much  alike  that  it  was  a  long  time  afterward  before  I 
could  "locate"  my  knife,  but  I  was  amply  repaid  for  my 
trouble. 

When  I  saw  the  friendly  old  woman,  who  had  often 
sheltered  me  from  the  sudden  changes  of  this  variable 
climate,  in  such  distress,  I  was  stupefied  with  amazement. 
Her  son  was  hiding  behind  her  skirts  and  loweringly  re- 
garding three  pompous  men  in  uniform  who  had  cornered 
them. 

"There's  th'  gentleman,"  said  Molly,  pointing  to  me  ex- 
ultingly.  "There's  th'  gentleman  who  can  testify  to  th' 
usefulness  of  me  boy.  Ask  him,  ask  him !"  Ned  came 
over  and  took  my  hand  confidingly.  I  looked  from  one 
to  the  other.  "He  wants  to  take  me  boy  away  from  me," 
sobbed  Molly,  "an'  put  him  in  th'  poorhouse." 

The  pompous  officials  regarded  me  with  ineffable  scorn, 
as  I  begged  to  know  the  meaning  of  the  scene,  my  shabby, 
weather-worn  tweeds  not  inspiring  them  with  any  appre- 
ciable amount  of  respect,  and  I  was  not  without  fear  that 
they  might  think  it  their  duty  to  put  me  under  lock  and 
key  as  well  as  Ned. 

"This  boy,"  said  one  of  the  officials,  indicating  with 
a  sneer  the  mature,  half-witted  creature  who  fondled  my 
hand,  "having  no  visible  means  of  support  but  an  aged 
mother,  who  can  hardly  maintain  herself,  is  to  be  con- 
veyed to  the  poorhouse,  and  my  authority  is  this,"  he 
added,  presenting  a  paper. 

"It  ill  becomes  ye,"  said  Molly,  nearly  beside  herself, 
"to  put  th'  grandson  of  Jack  Letfort  in  th'  poorhouse. 


242       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

It  was  me  father  who  kep'  th'  shelter  of  th'  roof  over  yer 
mother's  head  long  before  ye  wor  born,  "an'  ye  well  know 
it,  fer  yer  mother  has  often  tould  ye.  Ay,  many  a  one 
he  sheltered  in  th'  ould  days,  but  none  so  ungrateful  as 
ye." 

"This  paper,"  I  said,  returning  it  to  him,  "refers  only 
to  those  who  have  no  visible  means  of  support.  This  man 
is  self-supporting,  and  I  can  prove  it." 

"You  can,  can  you?"  replied  the  official,  in  whose 
cheeks  the  mother's  charges  had  brought  an  angry  flush. 
"I'd  like  to  see  you  prove  it." 

The  fellow  lied,  for  nothing  would  have  pleased  him 
better  than  to  have  carried  the  poor  imbecile  away,  if 
only  for  the  pleasure  of  showing  his  authority  and  re- 
venging himself. 

"He  has  been  my  guide  and  assistant  in  my  botanical 
wanderings  over  the  mountains  in  search  of  specimens. 
Without  him  I  could  have  made  little  headway,"  I  an- 
swered. 

"Indeed!"  rejoined  the  first  official,  scornfully,  "and 
pray  what  wages  do  you  give  him  ?" 

"A  shilling  a  day,"  I  replied,  promptly.  "I  was  not 
allowed  to  put  him  under  pay  till  yesterday,  when  my 
instructions  came.  Ned  is  worth  far  more  to  me  than 
that,  and  I  will  see  that  he  gets  it.  For  the  present,  this 
must  suffice,"  and  I  counted  some  glittering  new  silver 
into  the  huge  brown  fist  of  the  "little  boy"  who  towered 
a  head  over  me. 

The  delight  of  Ned  on  the  receipt  of  the  coins  was 
prodigious.  He  first  laughed  loud  and  long,  then  tossed 
them  into  the  air,  one  by  one,  and  caught  them  on  his 
chin,  on  his  forehead,  and  the  too  of  his  head.  Finally, 


MOLLY  MULLANEY  243 

he  inverted  himself  and  walked  around  the  cabin  on  his 
hands,  kicking  his  heels  in  close  proximity  to  the  roof. 

A  more  grotesque  figure  never  presented  itself  before 
a  serious  audience.  He  wore  a  suit  of  clothes  that  must 
have  formerly  belonged  to  a  curate  on  small  pay,  who 
had  worn  them  until  too  shabby  for  clerical  use  before 
giving  them  to  Ned,  who  was  evidently  at  least  four 
inches  taller  than  his  benefactor.  A  vast,  uncovered  ter- 
ritory of  arms  and  legs  was  the  consequence  of  the  dis- 
crepancy, and  in  respect  to  the  poor  mother,  who  was 
watching  him  with  a  troubled  face,  I  made  an  effort  to 
keep  from  laughing,  but  it  was  necessarily  heroic. 

"He's  wild  wid  delight  at  th'  sight  of  so  much  money," 
said  his  mother,  apologetically,  for"  she  was  afraid  her 
"little  boy"  was  making  a  bad  impression.  "He's  gen- 
erally as  quiet  as  a  lamb,  gentlemen." 

"He'll  have  to  get  used  to  it,"  I  ventured  to  say,  "as 
he  will  draw  his  wages  every  Saturday  night." 

"And  pray,  who  may  you  be?"  asked  the  man  who 
had  spoken  before,  "and  what  proof  have  we  that  your 
words  are  to  be  taken?" 

"I  am  an  American,  and  a  student  of  botany.  I  have 
nothing  to  do  with  any  political,  agrarian,  or  any  other 
troubles  in  this  country.  I  simply  came  to  botanize,  and 

for  fear  of  any  interruption,  my  friend,  Mr.  ' 

(mentioning  a  well-known  magistrate)   "has  given  me 
this  letter." 

The  sight  of  the  letter  altered  the  state  of  affairs  ma- 
terially, and  the  officious  officials  bowed  themselves  out. 

"May  God  bless  ye!"  said  Molly,  falling  on  her  knees. 
"May  God  bless  ye,  an'  give  ye  long  an'  happy  days! 
What  would  I  have  done,  only  f er  ye  ?  They'd  have  taken 


244       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

me  boy  away,  where  I  would  never  see  him  agin.  Here, 
Ned,  give  th'  gentleman  back  his  money." 

"No,  no!"  I  cried.  "It's  his — honestly  his — and  very 
little  return  for  his  services." 

Molly  was  astounded.  "Did  ye  really  mane  it — that 
me  boy  was  worth  that?  Oh,  take  jt  back,  yer  honor. 
Ye  can't  mane  that!" 

I  laughed  and  shook  my  head.  "It's  honestly  Ned's," 
I  replied,  "and  he  will  earn  that  every  week." 

"Me  boy  will  earn  that  much  every  week!"  repeated 
Molly,  slowly,  upon  whom  the  sight  of  so  much  money 
had  a  stupefying  effect.  "I  can  hardly  believe  it." 

"It's  true,  nevertheless.  He  will  soon  strike  for  more 
when  he  knows  the  value  of  his  services,  I'm  thinking,  so 
I  must  take  advantage  of  the  present  time." 

"Ye  are  sayin'  these  things  from  a  kind  heart,"  said 
the  mother,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Not  at  all.  Ned,  give  your  mother  the  money.  She  is 
going  to  buy  a  cow." 

Ned  willingly  gave  up  the  money,  with  the  exception 
of  one  shilling,  which  he  kept  to  buy  himself  a  top,  and 
then,  worn  out  with  the  thought  of  his  wealth  and  with 
his  recent  exertions,  dropped  asleep  with  his  head  in  his 
mother's  lap. 

"  Tis  all  right  till  yer  honor  goes,"  said  Molly.  "What 
will  become  of  him  then,  fer  he  has  no  one  in  th'  worl'  but 
his  mother,  barrin'  a  cousin  in  America  somewhere." 

"It  will  be  all  right  either  way,"  I  replied ;  for  the  men- 
tion of  her  American  relative  had  given  me  an  idea,  which 
I  intended  to  elaborate  later.  "Haven't  you  some  faith 
in  God?" 

"I  used  to  have,"  said  the  old  woman.     "I  used  to 


MOLLY  MULLANEY  245 

have,  but  th'  disappointments  an'  throuble  of  th'  worl' 
have  changed  me.  If  th'  boy  only  had  his  senses  he'd 
get  along  all  right,  fer  he's  sthrong  an'  willinV 

It  was  the  first  time  this  interesting  woman  had  men- 
tioned her  son's  infirmity.  I  had  marveled  at  her  calm, 
kindly  ways  and  unruffled  countenance,  her  intelligence, 
her  wonderful  memory,  and  her  appreciation  of  every- 
thing beautiful  in  nature  and  art,  and  often  stopped  to 
think  just  what  kind  of  a  niche  she  would  occupy  in  the 
gallery  of  brilliant  women  if  she  had  only  been  educated 
in  this  world's  lore.  How  did  this  woman  come  to  have 
such  a  son,  and  no  other  to  eke  out  her  last  years  with  ? 
It  was  a  common  thing  to  meet  centenarians  in  this  dis- 
trict, and  Molly  looked  as  if  she  might  easily  reach  the 
hundred  mark.  Who,  or  what  manner  of.  man  was  her 
husband?  Was  Ned  born  foolish?  Curiosity  was  de- 
vouring me,  but  I  would  no  more  dare  to  take  the  liberty 
of  asking  her  to  lay  bare  the  history  of  her  past,  than 
I  would  ask  the  lady  who  lived  in  the  castle  on  the  cliff. 
Something  in  her  manner  forbade  it. 

She  read  my  thoughts.  Running  her  fingers  through 
the  dark  masses  of  hair  that  covered  the  head  of  her  sleep- 
ing son,  she  said:  "He  always  wafe  an'  always  will  be 
no  more  than  a  child,  an'  I  blame  meself  fer  it." 

There  was  a  pause,  in  which  she  seemed  to  be  battling 
with  herself  for  mastery. 

"Never  mind,"  I  requested,  "the  matter  must  be  pain- 
ful to  you." 

"I  made  a  bargin  wid  God,"  she  continued,  without 
heeding,  and  I  think  without  hearing,  "that  Fd  never 
complain  agin  if  He'd  leave  me  this  one  boy  of  seven." 

"Seven!"  I  echoed.    "Seven!" 


246  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Ned  was  me  seventh  son,  an'  his  father  was  also  th' 
seventh  son,  th'  quietest  man  in  th'  worl',  an'  a  great 
favorite.  He  was  killed  while  tillin'  his  own  garden  be 
a  stray  shot  from  a  party  of  sogers  who  wor  takin'  a 
widow's  cow  fer  th'  tithes.  I  was  beside  meself  wid  grief 
an'  despair,  an'  heeded  nothin'.  Me  neighbors  attended 
to  me  little  childer,  fer  I  had  no  feelin'.  Then  Ned  was 
born. 

"I  was  a  young  woman  then,  an'  I  felt  that  th'  whole 
worl'  was  comin'  to  an  end,  bekase  me  husban'  was  killed ; 
but  it's  so  long  ago  that  th'  mem'ry  of  it  is  like  a  dream 
to  what  happened  afther.  He  was  taken  from  me  sudden, 
but  I  know  where  he  is  buried  an'  could  see  his  grave; 
but  I  don't  know  where  me  six  noble  boys  are  lyinV 

Molly  paused.  Her  thoughts  were  evidently  far  away. 
She  gazed  into  the  little  turf-fire,  and  the  pictures  she 
saw  were  not  encouraging ;  for  the  expression  of  sadness 
deepened  on  the  fine  old  face,  and  she  seemed  to  forget 
that  she  was  not  alone. 

"Then  your  boys  didn't  stay  in " 

"They  stayed  as  long  as  they  could,  poor  fellows!  I 
lost  a  good  farm  while  they  wor  small,  thryin'  to  raise 
them  an'  give  them  some  schoolin'." 

"Where  are  they  now?" 

"Jack  is  lyin'  in  th'  Crimea,  killed  fightin'  fer  England ; 
James  an'  Willie  are  buried  somewhere  in  India ;  Tom  an' 
Terry  are  undher  an  African  sky  somewhere ;  an'  Larry, 
th'  beauty  of  them  all,  was  killed  in  some  little  island  that 
th'  English  wor  thryin'  to  steal  from  th'  poor  natives. 
They're  all  dead — died  fightin'  fer  England — fightin'  fer 
th'  country  that  killed  their  father." 

"Why  did  they  enlist?" 


MOLLY  MULLANEY  247 

"What  else  wor  there  fer  them  to  do?  There's  no 
minin',  no  factoryin',  no  transportation  fer  th'  fish  that 
can  be  caught  at  our  very  doors.  What  could  th'  boys  do 
but  take  th'  shillin'  always  held  out  to  fine,  tall  young 
men,  an'  me  boys  wor  none  of  them  undher  six  feet.  Ned 
tuk  it  two  or  three  times,  th'  recruitin'  sergeant  not  know- 
in'  him,  but  he  wor  always  let  off  when  they  got  as  far 
as  Galway.  They  thried  to  punish  him  fer  foolin'  them 
an'  defraudin'  Her  Majesty,  bekase  he  always  spent  th' 
shillin'  fer  tops  or  lollypops  before  they  found  him  out ; 
but  when  they  tuk  him  to  court  he  only  med  th'  magis- 
thrates  laugh,  an'  nothin'  wor  ever  done  to  him. 

"I  wor  very  unhappy  an'  angry  wid  God  fer  sendin' 
me  such  a  son ;  but  now  I  thank  Him,  bekase  I  know  it's 
all  fer  th'  best.  If  he  had  his  senses,  th'  Queen  would 
want  him  to  fight  her  battles  fer  her.  Thank  God  fer  me 
crazy  son !  They  have  to  lave  him  to  me,  bekase,  not 
knowin'  how  to  carry  a  gun,  he's  as  likely  to  shoot  th' 
man  behind  him  as  th'  man  in  front." 

"The  officials  are  anxious  to  take  care  of  him." 

"Ay,  in  th'  poorhouse.  Those  are  th'  only  factories 
they  are  willin'  to  build  in  Ireland.  They  want  sogers, 
not  a  happy,  comfortable  people.  I  am  ould,  an'  not  able 
to  express  meself ;  but  when  I  die,  I'll  be  able  to  tell  th' 
Lord  a  thing  or  two.  Mebbe  they  think  we  don't  know 
when  we  are  unjustly  thrated ;  but  we  do,  we  do,  an'  th' 
gover'ment  that  tuk  me  sons  away  from  me  an'  buried 
them  like  dogs  in  forrin  parts,  will  stand  their  thrial  be- 
fore a  bar  where  no  difference  is  made  bethune  th'  widdy 
in  Connemara  an'  th'  widdy  in  London." 

There  was  a  sound  of  hurrying  footsteps  outside;  the 
door  was  burst  open,  and  a  ragged,  wild  figure  fell  in. 


248  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

Molly  jumped  to  her  feet,  and  Ned  woke  up  with  a  cry 
of  distress;  just  such  a  cry  a  child  would  give  at  seeing 
someone  who  had  terrified  him  previously. 

"Don't  let  him  take  me  away!"  he  said,  getting  behind 
his  mother. 

It  was  difficult  to  recognize  in  the  tattered  wretch  be- 
fore us  the  dapper  individual  who  had  insisted  on  taking 
Ned  to  the  poorhouse  only  a  few  moments  ago. 

"Hide  me!  Hide  me!"  he  cried.  "The  Langleys  are 
after  me!" 

"Ye  sent  th'  revenue  afther  them  last  week,"  said 
Molly. 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  man,  trembling,  "it  was  my — 
my — business." 

"Afther  dhrinkin'  at  their  fireside  an'  pretendin'  to  be 
their  friends." 

"Save  me!  Save  me!"  cried  the  man.  "They're  after 
me!" 

"Ye  don't  desarve  it;  but  I  will,  if  ye'll  promise  to  let 
me  little  boy  alone." 

"I  will!  I  will!"  repeated  the  wretch,  cowering  be- 
hind the  door. 

"Me  advice  to  ye,"  said  Molly,  coolly,  "is  never  to  play 
thricks  on  th'  mountaineers.  They're  willin'  to  thrate 
everyone  dacent,  but  they  want  to  be  thrated  dacent  in 
return.  There's  gaps  in  these  hills,  an'  bogs  near  th'  say 
that  require  fillin',  an'  a  few  hundred  informers  wouldn't 
be  missed  an'  would  come  in  very  handy.  I'm  not  partial 
to  whiska  meself,  an'  thank  God,  poor  Ned  wouldn't  taste 
it  fer  all  th'  money  in  London;  but  I  think  that  a  poor 
man  should  make  th'  best  of  what  he  has  to  sell,  whether 
it  be  corn  or  fish,  an'  a  man  that  comes  round  to  make 
more  throuble  than  we  like  should  look  out." 


MOLLY  MULLANEY  249 

"Save  me !  Save  me !  They're  close  behind  me !"  cried 
the  man,  impatiently. 

"All  in  good  time,"  said  Molly,  throwing  a  skirt  over 
him  and  a  cloak  around  him,  drawing  the  hood  well 
over  his  face.  "Here,  Ned,"  she  continued,  "take  this 
man  to  Peggy  Moffit's.  There's  a  woman  in  disthress 
there.  Spake  no  word  to  anybody,  an'  hurry  back,  be- 
kase  I'm  goin'  to  have  cakes  an'  tay  wid  th'  money  th' 
gentleman  paid  ye.  Dhrop  th'  clothes  in  a  ditch  when 
ye're  out  of  danger,  an'  that  would  be  before  ye  get  to 
Ben  Baun.  Run  then  fer  yer  life,  an'  don't  show  yer- 
self  here  in  a  hurry.  No  harm  will  come  to  ye  while 
ye  are  wid  Ned,  bekase  they'll  think  it's  me,"  were  the 
instructions  Molly  gave  to  the  dismantled  official,  in  an 
aside. 

Ned  was  at  first  reluctant,  but  finally  obedient,  and 
the  ill-assorted  pair  departed. 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Molly,  looking  through  the  little 
window.  "Th'  crowd  has  turned  back  to  look  fer  him  in 
th'  other  pass." 

"Will  Ned  succeed  in  bringing  him  safely  away?"  I 
asked,  to  whom  the  scene  was  a  veritable  drama. 

"He  will,"  answered  the  gifted  old  woman,  "an'  what's 
more,  he'll  never  come  back.  I've  done  two  good  turns 
to-day,"  she  added,  cheerfully.  "I've  kep'  th'  boys  from 
doin'  somethin'  they  would  be  sorry  fer  aftherwards,  an' 
I've  med  a  friend  of  th'  smart  fellow  who  thinks  he 
knows  Connemara." 


250  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 


ROSY  MCDONNELL'S  JEALOUSY. 

It  has  never  been  known  to  what  extent  jealousy  will 
carry  a  man  or  woman,  but  it  carried  Rosy  McDonnell 
very  far — so  far  that  she  was  the  laughing-stock  of  every- 
body from  Outerard  to  Clifden,  and  from  Killary  Harbor 
to  Galway  Bay. 

Rosy  was  insanely,  wildly  jealous,  and  being  a  proud, 
reserved  woman,  let  the  canker  eat  her  heart  out  before 
she  made  a  sign ;  and  even  then  that  sign  was  conveyed 
to  "the  little  gray  man  from  the  mist,"  so  called  because 
he  lived  on  the  top  of  the  mountain  from  which  the  mist 
never  quite  cleared  away,  and  practiced  his  calling,  like 
Molly  Dowd,  the  cup-tosser,  in  silence  and  mystery,  far 
away  from  the  restraining  hand  of  Father  Tom. 

If  Rosy  had  only  confided  in  her  husband — well,  in 
that  case  there  would  have  been  no  story  to  tell. 

The  wildest  stretch  of  imagination  would  never  have 
associated  the  personnel  of  Malachy  McDonnell  with 
the  slightest  shadow  of  romance — that  is,  a  sane  imagina- 
tion, but  jealous  people  are  rarely  sane.  His  short,  squat 
figure  and  round,  good-natured  face,  adorned  with  whis- 
kers the  color  of  the  setting  sun,  stretching  from  ear  to 
ear  and  meeting  under  his  chin  in  the  placid  manner  of  a 
goat  from  the  peak  of  Slievemore,  ought  to  have  satisfied 
her  of  his  innocence  in  that  line,  but  it  didn't.  Malachy's 
attraction  did  not  lie  in  his  face  or  form.  He  had  two 


ROSY  MCDONNELL'S  JEALOUSY  251 

gifts,  not  always  recognized  at  first  sight,  but  which  go  a 
long  way  toward  making  a  man's  success  in  life ;  namely, 
sound  brains  and  a  good  tongue. 

"He  could  talk  the  very  birds  off  the  bushes,  an'  make 
them  folly  him  through  fire  an'  wather,"  muttered  Rosy. 

That  he  had  coaxed  Rosy,  who  was  "divinely  tall  and 
most  divinely  fair"  and  the  belle  of  the  region,  from 
hosts  of  admirers  who  possessed  undoubted  good  looks  in 
varying  degrees,  was  proof  enough  in  itself  of  the  truth 
of  her  assertion. 

It  is  often  easy  to  capture  a  human  heart ;  but  the  proof 
of  power  is  in  the  keeping  of  it.  That  Malachy  had 
retained  his  wife's  affections  through  youth  on  to  middle 
life  was  another  proof  of  that  power.  That  he  never 
used  his  gifts  in  illegitimate  ways  was  sufficiently  proven 
in  the  cross-examination  conducted  by  the  greatest  mar- 
tinet for  morality  in  the  district,  Father  Tom ;  con- 
sequently, all  the  blame  was  laid  where  it  belonged,  on 
measureless  jealousy. 

To  the  ordinary  experience,  love  without  a  little  jeal- 
ousy is  worth  very  little.  If  Rosy  had  only  known  how 
many  honeyed  words  Malachy  dispensed  to  the  fair  sex — 
in  the  line  of  business — from  morning  till  night,  she 
would  have  been  very  unhappy;  but  as  his  business  was 
all  done  away  from  home,  she  was  spared  that  sorrow. 
Having  nothing  to  be  jealous  of,  and  seeing  nothing 
that  he  showered  his  attentions  on  more  tangible  than 
his  donkey,  she  immediately  became  jealous  of  the  donkey. 

I'm  afraid  that  strangers  will  think  that  Rosy  was  very 
silly ;  but  it  can  be  safely  asserted  that  she  was  not  a  bit 
sillier  than  others  and  more  cultured  of  her  sex.  Letty, 
the  donkey,  was  her  husband's  associate  in  business  and 


252       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

received  many  of  his  confidences  between  daylight  and 
dark  on  his  way  home  from  the  neighboring  towns,  as 
well  as  many  necessary  kindnesses;  and  the  jealousy 
shown  was  not  more  strange  or  unreasonable  than  that 
often  exhibited  toward  a  partner,  a  secretary,  or  a  type- 
writer-girl who  hasn't  a  bit  more  attraction  than  Mal- 
achy's  donkey.  Rosy  never  got  into  this  predicament  all 
alone.  In  fact,  the  ridiculous  idea  was  first  introduced 
into  her  mind  by  a  traveling  beggar,  whose  ungrateful 
return  for  a  hearty  meal  was  a  thorn  that  rankled — as 
he  well  knew  it  would — in  the  heart  of  the  unhappy 
woman  for  many  days.  The  conversation  ran  thus : 

"Many  thanks  fer  yer  kindness,  ma'am,  an'  may  th' 
Lord  increase  yer  store.  But  sure  there's  no  need  of  me 
prayer,  as  long  as  ye  have  th'  good-will  of  th'  good  people, 
an'  one  of  them  wid  yer  good  man  all  th'  time.  No,  in- 
deed !" 

"What  do  you  mane?"  asked  Rosy.  "I  don't  know 
that  we  have  anythin'  to  do  wid  the  good  people,  more 
than  our  neighbors." 

"Oh,  not  ye,  ma'am,  not  ye,"  and  the  rascal  snickered 
before  he  added:  "But  sure  it's  not  well  fer  a  woman 
to  know  too  much,  especially  a  wife.  Good-by,  ma'am." 

"Stay,"  said  Rosy,  now  fully  aroused.  "Stay  a  minute. 
I — I — have  a  few  things  that  may  be  of  use  to  you. 
What  about  the  good  people  ?" 

"They  say  that  yer  man  found  a  crock  of  gold,  but  he 
didn't,"  said  the  beggar,  with  pretended  reluctance.  "But 
I  knew  when  I  saw  th'  donkey  that  it  wasn't  what  ye 
took  it  to  be,  but  a — but — well,  ma'am,  th'  laste  said  th' 
soonest  mended.  Good-by,  an'  may " 

"Now  just  tell  me  what  you  think  the  donkey  is," 
persisted  Rosy,  "or  you  needn't  come  here  any  more." 


ROSY  MCDONNELL'S  JEALOUSY  253 

"Well,  then,  if  ye  will  have  it,  she's  a  fairy  changeling 
— a  fairy  who  has  fallen  in  love  wid  yer  man  an'  has 
taken  th'  form  of  a  donkey  so  as  to  be  near  him.  Between 
Ballynakill  an'  Killary  there's  a  lake  sheltered  by  two 
mountains,  known  to  but  few.  When  yer  husband  goes 
that  way,  he  stops  an'  rests.  Between  dawn  an'  dark 
there's  one  hour  in  which  th'  donkey  can  return  to  her 
fairy  form;  that  is,  if  she  gets  in  on  time,  but  meself 
doesn't  know " 

Rosy  affected  to  laugh  at  the  superstition,  but  the 
laugh  was  hollow;  and  for  her  further  delectation,  the 
beggar  informed  her  that  the  beautiful  fairy  was  probably 
"a  thousand  years  old,  barrin'  a  day,"  and  that  only  one 
man  in  a  hundred  could  work  a  "charm"  on  the  usurper 
and  show  her  husband  what  this  unearthly  sweetheart 
really  was  in  all  her  decrepitude  of  age  and  fury,  and  that 
only  man  was  "the  little  gray  man  from  the  mist." 

The  mischief  was  done,  and  the  beggar  decamped  with 
a  well-filled  bag  and  a  meaning  smile. 

What  the  beggar  said  was  very  true,  so  far  as  money 
was  concerned.  They  had  been  very  poor,  and  now  they 
were  rich, — rich  for  that  part  of  the  world.  They  had 
more  than  a  hundred  pounds  in  the  bank,  besides  a  good 
house  and  barn  and  some  gay  new  furniture  coming  to 
please  the  girls.  All  this  wealth  had  been  accumulated 
in  a  few  years,  and  during  that  time  the  donkey  had  been 
in  their  possession.  Malachy  said  he  had  bought  her 
from  someone  for  a  certain  sum  and  was  always  praising 
her  for — bah 

Rosy  had  been  reared  among  the  mysterious  mountains 
of  the  coast,  where  the  supernatural  aroused  no  surprise 
at  all;  where  wild,  unearthly  laughter  and  strains  of 


254  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

music  emerged  from  the  hollow  of  the  everlasting  hills 
and  were  borne  out  to  sea,  assuring  the  fishermen  that 
the  revels  of  the  mountain  spirits  were  in  progress ;  and 
where  all  kinds  of  strange  occurrences  were  expected. 
She  had  been  poor,  and  now  Rosy  felt  that  she  would 
gladly  be  poor  again  if  she  could  only  get  rid  of  that 
miserable  donkey.  Of  what  use  was  wealth  if  her 
Malachy  preferred  the  society  of  the  wretched  fairy  "a 
thousand  years  old,  barrin'  a  day,"  to  the  woman  who 
married  him  in  all  her  youth  and  beauty  ? 

If  Rosy  had  only  stopped  to  think,  she  might  have 
accounted  for  everything  in  a  perfectly  natural  way. 
Malachy  had  been  lucky,  it  was  true;  but  his  luck  had 
been  helped  out  by  hard  work,  in  which  she  and  her 
daughters  shared.  Had  he  been  born  in  America,  he 
would  have  been  many  times  a  millionaire,  for  the  brains 
that  turned  possibilities  into  probabilities  were  his  in  a 
marked  degree.  A  man  becomes  wealthy  in  proportion 
to  the  number  of  men  he  gets  to  work  for  him,  while 
he  directs  their  work  into  the  money  line.  Even  on  that 
backward  coast  and  without  one  male  in  the  family  out- 
side of  himself,  Malachy  gathered  in  the  fruits  of  the 
work  of  four  persons  (not  counting  the  donkey),  and  his 
diplomacy  was  such  that  all  worked  without  realizing  it. 

Everybody  along  the  coast,  with  the  exception  of  the 
shopkeepers  and  the  clergymen — Presbyterian  and 
Catholic — and  the  superannuated  doctor,  was  in  the  same 
line  of  business.  Each  man  had  a  boat  or  a  share  in  a 
boat,  and  a  patch  of  potatoes  and  oats  on  the  side  of  a 
mountain,  a  pig,  a  goat,  a  cow  or  two,  or  maybe  no  cow 
at  all. 

When  the  season  was  good  and  they  were  lucky  in  their 


ROSY  MCDONNELL'S  JEALOUSY  255 

catch  of  fish,  the  huxters  seemed  to  know  it  by  instinct. 
They  came  around  the  boats  with  their  carts,  crowding, 
jostling,  and  bargaining  so  as  to  manage  to  get  their 
herrings  into  town  before  the  sun  was  high,  but  the 
prices  they  paid  were  wretched. 

When  the  season  was  poor,  or  the  French  with  their 
steam-plows  and  their  smiles  had  raked  the  Bay  ahead  of 
their  "thrawlers,"  the  compensation  remained  about  the 
same;  for  oversupply  brought  under  prices,  and  what 
could  not  be  used  in  the  home  market  must  be  either 
given  away  or  buried  for  manure,  while  towns  at  a  dis- 
tance were  pining  for  the  fruits  of  the  ocean,  so  meager 
were  transportation  facilities. 

Father  Tom  and  the  Presbyterian  clergyman  had  long 
been  trying  to  remedy  this  evil.  They  had  written  here 
and  there,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  In  the  meantime,  Mai- 
achy,  who  realized  that  complaints  were  useless,  wasted 
no  time  in  them,  but  turned  his  back  on  the  huxters,  and 
leaving  his  wife  and  three  daughters — for  he  had  no 
sons — in  charge  of  the  boats  and  fishing-tackle,  loaded  his 
donkey  and  cleared  the  dew  from  the  grass  in  his  efforts 
to  reach  the  town  first. 

Malachy's  girls  could  cast  a  net  and  haul  it  to  land  with 
the  dexterity  of  young  men,  and  for  this  Malachy's 
neighbors  criticised  him.  They  would  have  criticised  him 
just  a«  severely  had  he  allowed  them  to  remain  at  home, 
so  he  cared  not  one  jot,  but  kept  on  getting  rich.  His 
wife  and  daughters  not  only  attended  to  the  fishing  but 
worked  his  tiny  farm  as  well,  while  he  was  in  town  dis- 
posing of  the  shell-fish  and  dillisk  in  season.  He  was  a 
rare  disciplinarian,  but  a  kind  one,  and  he  never  forgot  a 
ribbon  or  an  apron  for  the  girls,  nor  a  precious,  though 
17 


256  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

tiny,  package  of  tea  for  his  wife.  His  lips  dropped 
honeyed  words  at  all  times,  so  that  his  return  from  town 
was  always  looked  forward  to  with  pleasure.  Outside 
of  these  presents,  Malachy  was  of  a  very  saving  turn,  and 
commenced  to  spread.  He  bought  first  one  boat  and  then 
another,  then  an  acre  of  bog-land,  and  then  an  acre  of 
mountain.  Every  investment  was  judicious.  The  same 
two-room  cottage,  with  its  neat  sanded  floor,  satisfied 
him ;  but  prosperity  is  proud,  and  the  girls  were  lengthen- 
ing out  and  demanded  better  accommodations,  and  they 
got  them. 

Everybody  said  Malachy  had  found  a  pot  of  gold,  and 
the  beach  was  scoured  for  piratical  stores  that  were  re- 
ported to  have  been  hidden  there  long  ago.  Malachy 
neither  affirmed  nor  denied  the  charge.  He  merely  smiled 
and  went  on  with  his  work. 

The  change  was  gradual  but  sure, — one  old-fashioned 
thing  after  another  being  disposed  of  to  make  room  for 
the  new ;  but  there  was  one  thing  Malachy  would  not  part 
with,  and  that  was  the  donkey.  He  liked  to  sit  in  the 
kitchen  and  feed  her  over  the  half  door  with  a  piece  of 
oat-cake  at  supper  time.  She  was  a  great  pet,  and  the 
sound  of  her  master's  voice  would  bring  her  from  a  long 
distance ;  sometimes  it  drew  her  into  the  kitchen,  and  the 
patter  of  her  hard  hoofs  on  the  floor  drew  on  her  the  fury 
of  the  girls.  They  had  been  away  to  the  neighboring 
towns,  to  Lettermore  and  Gorumna,  and  had  seen  nice 
houses  and  parlors,  but  never  a  donkey  as  a  visitor.  Why 
should  they  be  bothered  with  her.? 

"Sell  her,  father,"  they  cried.  "Pete  Wallace  will  give 
you  five  shillings  for  her.  She's  getting  worse  and  worse 
every  day."  But  Malachy  was  firm. 


ROSY  MCDONNELL'S  JEALOUSY  257 

"No,  no,"  he  replied.  "She  has  worked  hard,  and  she 
deserves  a  rest.  She  has  helped  to  buy  you  a  parlor.  Let 
the  poor  thing  peep  into  the  kitchen.  She's  old  and 
doesn't  understand  the  new  state  of  affairs."  Malachy 
sighed.  He,  too,  liked  the  old  style  of  things;  but  his 
girls — yes,  his  girls  had  their  likings,  and  he  owed  it  to 
them  to  give  them  pleasure.  They,  too,  had  worked  hard. 

All  this  was  gall  and  wormwood  to  Rosy.  She  had 
watched  with  growing  suspicion  every  act  of  kindness 
and  thoughtfulness  done  by  Malachy  for  the  companion 
of  his  rambles  over  the  sunlit  hills.  A  handful  of  fresh, 
sweet  grass,  an  apple,  a  square  of  oat-cake,  a  drink  of 
water,  or  a  pat  of  his  hand  on  her  coat — which  was  en- 
tirely too  silky  for  a  donkey — were  but  fresh  tokens  of 
an  illicit  love  for  a  wretched  fairy  changeling  "a  thou- 
sand years  old,  barrin'  a  day." 

If  she  had  paused  for  a  moment  to  think,  she  would 
have  remembered  that  kindness  was  all  in  Malachy's 
line;  that  it  was  as  natural  for  him  to  pat  a  dumb  "baste" 
as  for  another  man  of  a  morose  disposition  to  kick  it ;  that 
he  had  been  uniformly  kind  to  everybody  and  everything 
that  ever  crossed  his  path,  and  that  his  present  conduct 
was  the  same  as  in  the  past  and  therefore  should  excite 
no  remark ;  but  she  never  paused  to  think. 

Instead,  she  took  to  watching  Malachy  and  the  donkey. 
If  Malachy  was  absent,  she  looked  into  the  barn  for  the 
donkey,  and  if  she  found  her  grazing  quietly  near  by,  she 
did  not  hesitate  to  drive  her  to  her  shelter  with  a  few 
well-directed  blows. 

All  this  did  not  tend  to  make  better  friends  of  the  don- 
key, who  got  into  the  habit  of  watching  her  mistress  in 
a  dubious,  unfriendly  way,  that  boded  ill  for  the  latter  if 


258       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

she  ever  got  between  the  donkey's  heels  and  the  wall. 
With  her  imagination  filled  with  the  beggar-man's  story 
(he  had  come  again  and  again),  Rosy  saw,  in  that  look 
of  determination,  confirmation  of  her  wildest  suspicions. 
That  eye,  with  its  pupil  set  so  slyly  in  the  corner  and  full 
of  intelligent  inquiry,  could  surely  never  belong  to  a 
donkey.  It  had  all  the  triumphant  sneer  of  a  successful 
rival.  Rosy  had  brooded  so  long  over  these  things  that 
at  last  she  could  conjure  up  anything  that  her  fancy  dic- 
tated. 

Her  husband,  simple  man  that  he  was,  thought  the 
change  due  to  ill  health,  and  was  the  soul  of  kindness. 
He  advised  her  to  go  away  for  awhile  and  visit  her 
friends,  as  the  change  might  benefit  her.  In  this  Rosy 
saw  but  another  proof  that  her  presence  was  not  desired, 
and  she  flamed  forth  in  angry  remonstrance. 

"You'd  be  glad  to  see  me  go,  I'm  sure!"  she  cried. 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course.  I'll  take  you  down  as  far  as  the 
coach." 

"Oh,  you're  anxious  to  see  my  back  turned,  but  you 
can't  fool  me  forever.  Oh,  I  know  you  and  your  tricks. 
No,  no ;  I'll  stay  here  at  home  and  watch  the  pair  of  you." 

Malachy  looked  puzzled.  Was  this  his  gentle,  docile 
Rosy?  He  again  attributed  this  outbreak  to  some  physi- 
cal ailment,  and  determined  to  consult  a  doctor.  In  the 
meantime,  he  doubled  his  kindness.  To  Rosy  his  kind- 
ness was  another  insult,  and  she  sulked.  But  a  woman 
can't  sulk  forever,  and  she  made  up  her  mind  to  do  some- 
thing. 

In  the  meanwhile,  the  parlor  that  Malachy  had  added 
to  his  cottage  to  please  his  girls  was  now  ready.  A  mir- 
ror, almost  the  size  of  a  minute  mountain  lake,  had  ar- 


ROSY  MCDONNELL'S  JEALOUSY  259 

rived,  and  after  being  duly  admired  by  the  neighbors,  was 
securely  fastened  to  the  wall.  A  carpet  of  gorgeous  pat- 
tern and  glaring  colors  covered  the  floor,  and  a  superan- 
nuated piano,  which  Malachy  had  picked  up  at  an  auction 
sale  at  Kilrush,  spread  its  length  along  the  opposite  wall. 

The  girls  were  in  ecstasies.  They  were  tall,  comely, 
and  innocent,  but  awkward  looking,  and  the  family  mir- 
ror, in  which  they  had  been  accustomed  to  regulate  their 
Sunday  toilets,  was  capable  of  being  concealed  in  the 
palms  of  their  huge  hands.  They  accordingly  approved 
of  this  means  of  rapid  survey  within  their  reach.  They 
spent  the  entire  day  laughing  and  giggling  before  it,  and 
keeping  the  donkey  within  the  precincts  of  her  own  do- 
main. In  this  the  mother  gladly  helped  them.  It  was  in 
attempting  to  protect  his  pet  from  an  unusually  heavy 
shower  of  blows  that  Malachy  came  upon  another  puz- 
zling scene  with  his  wife. 

"Don't  hit  the  poor  thing  so  hard,  Rosy;  you'll  never 
tache  her  that  way — aisy,  aisy,  you'll  break  her  back." 

"No  fear  of  that,"  answered  his  wife,  significantly.  "It 
isn't  aisy  to  kill  her  kind." 

"Kindness  is  the  best  and  safest  method  to  be  used 
wid  both  man  and  baste,"  continued  Malachy.  "If  you're 
cruel,  you'll  make  her  spiteful,  and  she'll  take  her  chances 
and  kick  you.  Look  out!" 

"Sorry  a  doubt  but  you'll  take  her  part  agin  your  law- 
ful wife,"  retorted  Rosy.  "It's  a  wonder  you  don't  put 
her  in  the  parlor  and  send  us  to  the  barn.  It's  a  wonder." 

"She'll  soon  be  busy  bringing  home  the  winter's  turf," 
said  Malachy,  soothingly.  "And  after  I  have  her  away 
a  few  days  in  the  mountains,  she'll  forget  all  about  your 
new  parlor." 


260  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"After  you  spend  a  few  days  wid  her  at  the  wishing 
well !"  cried  his  wife,  who  was  now  furious. 

"Certainly,  certainly,"  acquiesced  her  husband,  looking 
at  his  wife  in  a  puzzled  way  which  Rosy  took  for  guilt. 

The  upshot  was  that  Rosy  had  an  interview  with  "the 
little  gray  man  from  the  mist,"  and  he  agreed  to  come  on 
a  certain  day,  in  the  absence  of  Malachy  and  the  girls, 
and  work  certain  charms  on  the  unfortunate  donkey. 

"The  little  gray  man  from  the  mist"  was  not  very  mod- 
est in  his  demands;  but  Malachy,  who  was  usually  very 
close,  had  left  her  an  unusually  large  sum  of  money  to 
pay  the  doctor  whom  he  wished  her  to  consult,  and  she 
turned  it  over  to  "the  little  gray  man"  when  he  arrived, 
and  then  she  ushered  him  into  the  barn. 

"Hould  her  while  I  go  through  th'  first  incantation," 
said  the  little  man. 

"And  after  that?"  inquired  Rosy,  who  was  making  a 
grab  for  the  donkey's  ears. 

"An'  afther  that,"  answered  the  little  man,  "she  has  to 
sniff  three  sniffs  of  burnin'  yarbs  which  I  will  light  undher 
her  nose." 

"And  after  that?" 

"An'  afther  that,  I'll  whisper  a  few  words  in  her  ear, 
an'  ye'll  see  a  beautiful  crathure,  wid  golden  hair  an' 
heavenly  eyes  an' " 

"Ugh!"  said  Rosy,  disgustedly,  "and  what  do  I  want 
her  for?  And  what'll  I  do  wid  her?" 

"Whisth,  whisth,  woman!  Don't  be  interruptin'  me. 
She  won't  remain  long  in  that  shape,  fer " 

"How  long?"  asked  Rosy,  breathlessly,  knowing  or  im- 
agining her  husband's  weakness  for  female  loveliness. 

"Not  fer  long,  but  ye  must  hould  on  to  her  fer  fear  of 


ROSY  MCDONNELL'S  JEALOUSY  261 

her  goin'  through  th'  kayhole,  be  raison  of  her  shuper- 
natural  powers,  an'  tryin'  to  fly  to  th'  arms  of  her  lover." 

"Oh,  I'll  hold  her,  never  fear;  that  is,  if  she  doesn't 
prove  too  strong." 

"That  depends  on  how  ye  hould  her,"  said  the  little 
man,  significantly.  "Ye  must  keep  yer  arms  round  her 
while  I  read  th'  first  incantation,  an'  never  loosen  as  much 
as  a  finger  till  I  read  th'  second  incantation." 

"And  then?"  queried  Rosy. 

"An'  then  if  ye  don't  folly  me  insthructions " 

"I  will,  I  will!"  gasped  Rosy.  "But  tell  me  here, 
what's  going  to  happen  then — I  mean  after  that " 

"Ye'll  see  her  turn  into  an  ould  woman  of  a  hundred 
years,  thin,  bony,  an'  awful  lookin',  her  hands  like  bird 
claws,  an'  dhressed  in  rags " 

"And  how'll  I  keep  her  till  Malachy  conies?"  asked 
Rosy,  with  a  mixture  of  exultation  and  horror  in  her 
voice.  "Couldn't  I  tie  her  up  to  the  piany?  But  sure 
she  knows  every  word  we're  saying.  Just  look  how  she's 
rolling  her  eyes." 

"She  hears  us,"  said  the  little  man,  "but  she  doesn't 
undherstand  one  word,  be  raison  of  a  yarb  I  have,  which 
carries  a  charm." 

Whether  she  understood  or  not,  the  donkey  was  not 
enraptured  with  her  present  company,  and  she  demon- 
strated the  fact  by  swerving  aside  and  making  for  the 
door.  It  had  been  fastened,  but  insecurely,  and  she 
passed  through  and  into  the  house. 

She  was  followed  immediately  by  the  two  conspirators, 
who  locked  the  kitchen  door  securely.  Letty  preferred 
the  parlor,  however,  and  she  dashed  in  and  took  her  stand 
before  the  mirror.  She  stopped  for  a  moment  as  if  to  ex- 


262  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

amine  her  reflection,  and  Rosy  improved  the  occasion  by 
catching  her  by  the  ears. 

"Just  take  her  where  she  is,"  she  shouted.  "I'll  hold 
her  while  you  burn  the  yarbs." 

"Ye'll  have  to  jump  on  her  back  an'  hould  on  to  her," 
urged  the  little  man,  when  the  donkey  had  wedged  her- 
self between  the  corner  of  the  piano  and  the  mirror. 

"As  well  here  as  anywhere,"  gasped  Rosy,  who  was  be- 
coming desperate  at  the  obstacles  in  her  way.  "As  soon 
as  we  get  her  in  the  real  shape,  we  can  tie  her  to  the  legs 
of  the  piany  and  send  for  Father  Tom.  Light  the  yarbs 
in  that  dish  and  there'll  be  no  damage  done,"  she  con- 
tinued. 

The  little  donkey  spread  her  feet  and  stood  in  seeming 
wonder  at  the  program  that  was  being  carried  out  in  her 
presence.  With  ears  erect  and  nostrils  dilated  to  their 
utmost  capacity,  she  watched  with  sly,  sideway  glances 
the  culmination  of  the  plot  against  her  liberty.  Not  a 
quiver  escaped  her  while  the  little  man  lighted  a  wisp  and 
communicated  it  to  the  ingredient  in  the  dish. 

"We're  getting  through  all  right,"  whispered  Rosy, 
exultantly,  from  the  back  of  the  bewildered  little  pest. 

But  she  spoke  too  soon.  Letty's  entire  attention  ap- 
peared to  be  engrossed  by  her  reflection  in  the  mirror. 
Her  whole  brain  was  working  itself  up  to  some  conclu- 
sion. Who  was  this  creature  staring  at  her,  at  such  im- 
pertinently close  quarters — one  of  her  own  species  with 
the  same  distinguishing  marks?  It  was  like  a  corporal 
of  the  guard  meeting  another  corporal  of  the  guard  in 
the  house  of  his  prettiest  sweetheart.  Letty,  in  her  wild- 
est moments,  had  never  dreamt  of  this  formidable  rival 
for  the  favors  of  the  household. 


ROSY  MCDONNELL'S  JEALOUSY  263 

As  for  the  woman  on  her  back  and  the  little  old  man 
bending  over  the  smoking  dish,  she  completely  ignored 
them;  she  could  scatter  them  at  any  time,  but  this  crea- 
ture— bah ! — it  was  Letty's  turn  to  be  jealous.  There  was 
room  in  the  house  for  only  one  donkey,  she  concluded. 

In  the  meantime,  the  vapor  from  the  burning  dish  was 
slowly  rising  between  her  and  her  rival,  whose  charms, 
so  like  her  own,  she  was  slowly  but  bitterly  enumerating : 
the  same  well-fed,  plump  body ;  the  same  long,  silky  hair ; 
the  long,  slender  ears.  She  could  stand  it  no  longer. 
Through  the  thickening  mist  that  rose  slowly  from  the 
pan,  she  caught  a  look  of  rage  and  defiance  from  the 
stranger.  It  was  enough. 

"See  how  th'  charm  is  workin'?"  whispered  the  little 
old  man.  "She  can't  move  hand  nor  foot.  Ha,  ha! 
We'll  soon  have  ye  all  right,  me  lady !" 

Rosy,  on  whom  the  "yarbs"  seemed  to  be  having  more 
effect  than  they  did  on  the  donkey,  made  a  motion  to  wipe 
the  scalding  tears  that  the  smoke  was  drawing  from  her 
eyes,  but  the  old  man  bade  her  keep  quiet. 

"Keep  yer  hands  on  her  a  minute  longer,"  he  said,  "or 
ye'll  break  th'  charm.  Look  at  her  now — ye'll  soon  see  a 
sight." 

This  was  very  true.  In  a  few  minutes  the  old  man 
saw  more  of  a  sight  than  he  had  ever  seen  from  Bena 
McCullagh,  but  of  a  widely  different  kind. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  silence  resembling  that  of  death,  the 
actors  in  this  strange  drama  watched  the  mystic  column 
rise  from  the  dish,  while  a  pungent,  aromatic  odor  filled 
the  room.  Rosy  was  livid  with  emotion.  She  was  about 
to  see  the  wicked  exposed  and  punished,  to  see  the  wretch 
who  had  robbed  her  of  her  husband's  love  brought  to  her 


264       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

own  shape  and  sent  back  to  her  people.  She  congratu- 
lated herself  on  her  courage  in  unmasking  this  demon; 
ah! 

Letty's  few  minutes  of  contemplation  were  over.  She, 
too,  was  making  up  her  mind  in  regard  to  the  new-comer, 
and  her  resolution  was  just  as  firm  as  that  reached  by  the 
woman  on  her  back.  She,  too,  would  punish  the  strange 
donkey  who  had  the  temerity  to  intrude  on  her  lawful 
domain  and  try  to  deprive  her  of  her  comfortable  stable 
and  her  sweet  morsels  of  grass,  not  to  speak  of  the  apples 
and  an  occasional  square  of  oat-cake.  She  would  destroy 
her  and  knock  her  not  only  out  of  the  house,  but  off  the 
face  of  the  green  earth. 

One  wild  "heehaw"  escaped  from  her  tortured  breast, 
and  she  prepared  for  action. 

A  donkey's  weapons  are  her  heels,  and  before  Rosy  had 
time  to  express  her  surprise,  Letty  had  changed  their 
positions  and  thrown  them  in  the  direction  of  her  illusory 
rival.  There  was  a  tremendous  clash,  and  the  mirror  was 
split  from  end  to  end.  Another  kick,  and  the  floor  was 
strewn  with  fragments.  Then  she  wheeled  around  in  an 
orbit,  and  returned  to  her  work  of  demolition,  leaving 
in  her  wake  an  overturned  dish  of  burning  herbs  and  a 
demolished  "yarb  doctor."  Rosy,  thinking  this  was  a 
necessary  part  of  the  charm,  held  on  to  the  donkey  with 
might  and  main. 

The  interest  of  the  whole  proceedings  was  now  centered 
in  the  donkey,  and  what  she  intended  to  do  next.  She  did 
not  leave  her  audience  long  in  suspense.  Seeing  that  her 
rival  had  disappeared,  she  gave  vent  to  a  succession  of 
triumphant  but  decidedly  unmusical  "heehaws,"  and  com- 
menced a  triumphant  gallop  around  the  room  with  a  ve- 


ROSY  MCDONNELL'S  JEALOUSY  265 

locity  hardly  to  be  credited  by  even  her  indulgent  master. 
Everything  disappeared  before  her  flying  heels — tables, 
chairs,  ornaments,  and  even  the  fairy  doctor.  From  the 
overturned  dish  a  small  fire  had  started,  which  was  slowly 
extending  over  the  carpet  of  many  colors,  and  still  she 
sped. 

"Holy  Mother!"  gasped  Rosy,  who,  breathless  and  as- 
tonished, was  still  clinging  to  the  donkey's  back.  "Holy 
Mother,  when  will  this  all  end?"  When  indeed?  The 
fire  was  embracing  the  leg  of  the  chair  and  the  table- 
cloth. 

Rosy  thought  this  was  all  witchcraft,  and  she  was  more 
determined  than  ever  to  see  the  charm  out.  She  had  read 
and  heard  of  such  illusions  brought  on  for  the  purpose  of 
tiring  out  the  mortal  prosecutors  and  causing  them  to  de- 
sist. No,  she  would  not  credit  the  evidence  of  her  eyes. 
When  the  wicked  fairy  who  now  occupied  the  shape  of 
the  wretched  donkey  was  dislodged,  all  these  things  would 
be  restored  to  their  normal  conditions  and  she  would  be 
rewarded  with  the  return  of  her  husband's  affections. 

There  was  in  her  mind  no  broken  mirror,  no  damaged 
furniture,  and  no  fire,  though  the  woolen  carpet  was  smol- 
dering and  bursting  into  flames  beneath  the  flying  feet  of 
the  frenzied  donkey. 

It  happened,  fortunately,  to  be  Father  Tom's  visiting 
day,  and  he  looked  in  from  his  position  on  the  back  of  his 
pony  through  the  open  window  (the  door  being  secured) 
on  the  scene,  the  parallel  of  which  he  had  never  even 
dreamt  of. 

"Tut,  tut,  tut!"  gasped  the  priest.  "What's  this  all 
about?  Are  you  playing  circus,  Rosy?" 

Rosy  tried  to  speak,  but  she  was  in  a  whirlwind  and 


266       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

could  not  stop.  Round  and  round  the  donkey  flew,  her 
tail  and  ears  erect,  her  heels  knocking  the  furniture  in 
all  directions. 

"Whoa!"  said  Father  Tom.  "Whoa!  What  on  earth 
is  up  with  the  beast?" 

"Keep  away  from  her  heels,  your  reverence,  for  God's 
sake!"  Rosy  managed  to  gasp.  "She  won't  lave  a  bit  of 
you  together;  she's  a  devil  and  that's  what  she  is." 

"That  depends,"  answered  the  priest,  coolly.  "A  don- 
key is  like  a  human  being.  He's  a  devil  when  he's  driven 
to  it.  What  have  you  been  doing  with  the  poor  thing? 
Why,  the  room's  afire!" 

Father  Tom  was  now  joined  by  Malachy  and  his  two 
girls,  whose  arrival  had  been  drowned  in  the  din.  They 
gazed  on  the  scene,  paralyzed  with  surprise,  in  which 
tears  from  the  girls  were  mingled. 

"Letty— Letty,"  said  Malachy,  softly.  "What's  the 
matter,  old  girl?"  At  the  sound  of  her  master's  voice, 
the  donkey's  pace  slackened  and  then  stopped. 

Rosy  was  not  much  to  look  at  when  Father  Tom  ven- 
tured in,  and  then  it  took  them  some  time  to  put  the  fire 
out;  in  the  course  of  which  they  discovered  "the  little 
gray  man  from  the  mist"  under  the  piano,  engaged  in 
spitting  out  his  few  remaining  teeth  and  nursing  some 
cuts  left  by  Letty's  nimble  heels. 

Over  the  explanation  that  followed,  we  will  draw  a 
veil.  Malachy  was  seen  to  shrug  his  shoulders  many 
times,  while  Father  Tom  covered  his  face  with  his  hand- 
kerchief under  pretense  of  requiring  it,  and  shook  as  if 
in  an  inward  spasm. 

It  really  was  funny  to  an  outsider,  though  not  particu- 
larly so  to  Malachy  and  his  three  daughters.  Though 


ROSY  MCDONNELL'S  JEALOUSY  267 

Rosy's  belief  in  witchcraft  and  the  powers  of  "the  little 
gray  man  from  the  mist"  was  considerably  shaken,  she 
was  glad  that  she  was  reinforced  in  her  war  against  the 
donkey  by  the  girls,  who  were  bewailing  the  loss  of  their 
fine  furniture. 

"Sell  her,  father,  sell  her,"  pleaded  the  girls.  "We  can 
never  have  any  comfort  with  such  a  pet — you  have  spoiled 
her." 

"I  vowed  I  would  never  sell  her,  and  I  won't  break  my 
word,"  said  Malachy. 

"Well,  lend  her,"  said  Father  Tom.  "I  need  a  donkey 
to  bring  home  some  turf  for  the  winter.  When  you  want 
her  back,  just  let  me  know." 

"Yes,"  said  the  girls  in  a  chorus;  "yes,  when  we  want 
her  back,  we  will  let  you  know,  but  we  won't  want  her 
back." 

"Be  good  to  the  poor  thing,  your  reverence,  be  good 
to  her,  but  sure  I  know  you  will.  She's  worked  hard  in 
her  day,  and  needs  a  rest;  she  hasn't  the  strength 
now " 

"No,"  said  Father  Tom,  "she  didn't  look  very  strong 
when  I  looked  in  just  now  and  she  was  firing  everything 
out  of  her  way.  Oh,  I  won't  work  her  hard ;  but  if  there's 
anything  fairy  about  her,  you  may  be  sure  I'll  find  it 
out." 

Letty  remained  with  Father  Tom  and,  though  not  over- 
worked, was  kept  reasonably  busy.  Patient  and  untiring, 
she  plodded  quietly  along,  forgetful  of  the  past  and  care- 
less of  the  future.  When  chance  brought  her  within 
sight  of  her  old  master  one  day,  she  stood  for  a  moment 
contemplating  the  exuberant  and  florid  whiskers  that  en- 
circled his  shrewd  face,  and  then,  memory  asserting  itself, 
she  gave  vent  to  a  joyful  bray  and  dashed  toward  him. 


268  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

Alas  for  poor  Letty !  Impeded  by  the  creels  that  were 
strapped  across  her  smooth  back,  she  made  a  misstep  and 
fell  among  the  rocks  at  his  feet,  never  to  rise  again. 

The  question  now  puzzling  Rosy's  mind— for  women 
are  never  satisfied — was :  Did  the  donkey  spring  to  him 
from  affection  or  from  an  expectation  of  some  delicacy 
from  his  hands?  Could  Letty  be  capable  of  affection? 
If  so,  she  was  no  donkey,  and  was  therefore  liable  to  turn 
up  at  any  moment  in  another  form.  Oh !  the  way  of  the 
jealous  woman  is  hard ! 

In  the  meantime  Malachy,  short,  squat,  and  bewhis- 
kered  like  an  Angora  goat,  is  watched  continually  and 
jealously  by  his  wife,  a  woman  not  only  "  divinely  tall  and 
most  divinely  fair,"  but  with  eyes  that  would  make  the 
homeliest  countenance  attractive. 

Such  was  Rosy's  belief  in  Malachy's  power  to  ensnare 
the  heart  of  even  a  fairy,  and  such  was  the  outcome  of 
that  phase  of  Rosy  McDonnell's  jealousy. 


VULCAN  AND  VENUS  2t>9 


VULCAN  AND  VENUS. 

"I  tell  ye,"  said  one  of  the  women,  excitedly,  "she's 
dead,  for  certain.  I  heard  it  from  them  who  knows." 

"  Vanus  dead  ?    No,  that's  impossible !" 

"Ay,  call  it  what  ye  like;  but  it's  thrue,  I  tell  ye." 

"An'  th'  child's  alive?" 

"Th'  child's  alive." 

"There'll  be  a  great  wake,  I'm  thinkin'." 

"There'll  be  no  wake  at  all." 

"No  wake!"  said  the  women  in  a  chorus,  when  they 
had  recovered  from  the  shock.  "No  wake !" 

The  skirts  of  the  limpet-gatherers,  which  they  had 
gathered  into  knots  above  their  brawny  knees,  dropped 
into  the  sea  at  this  strange  announcement,  and  floated 
around  them  on  the  blue  waters  like  scarlet  banners. 

"I  don't  believe  one  word  of  it,"  gasped  one  vigorous 
female,  wringing  out  her  dripping  petticoats,  and  wading 
slowly  to  land.  "I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it." 

"Nobody's  axin'  ye  to,"  said  the  informant;  "but  it's 
thrue  all  th'  same." 

"I'd  like  very  much  to  know,"  said  a  woman  who  had 
remained  behind  to  detach  the  last  limpet  from  his  native 
rock,  and  speaking  in  a  tone  of  strict  inquiry,  "I'd  like 
to  know  what  slight  Vulcan  intends  puttin'  on  his  wife 
before  her  neighbors.  It's  aisy  known  she  has  no  friends 
here — it's  aisy  known  that  her  kith  an'  kin  are  undher 


270       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

th'  sod,  or  scatthered  over  th'  face  of  th'  airth — it's  aisy 
to  know " 

"He's  a  misard,"  said  another,  "a  mane,  low,  beggarly 
misard !" 

"He's  not.  God,  He  knows  that  Vulcan's  worst  enemy 
can't  say  that  he's  a  misard.  No,  no;  th'  man  has  his 
raisons." 

"An'  what  raisons?"  inquired  the  previous  speaker, 
as  she  adjusted  her  basket  on  her  head.  "What  raisons 
can  he  have  but  maneness — answer  me  that?" 

The  woman  appealed  to  paused  in  the  act  of  raising  her 
basket,  and  significantly  looked  at  the  others,  who  were 
fast  disappearing  over  the  beach  in  groups  of  twos  and 
threes,  like  bright  spots  in  the  dull  gray  atmosphere, 
and  all  talking  earnestly.  Then  she  leaned  over  and 
whispered  something  in  her  companion's  ear. 

The  communication  staggered  the  woman,  for  she 
dropped  her  basket  in  the  sand  at  her  feet,  and  looked 
at  her  friend  with  white  lips. 

"Christ  bless  us!"  she  said  at  length.  "But  that  is 
a  hard  thing  to  say  of  a  Connemara  woman,  an'  no  rela- 
tive livin'  to  see  her  righted !  Christ  bless  us !" 

Unlike  their  companions,  the  women  walked  along  in 
silence,  each  thinking  earnestly.  As  they  left  the  scene 
of  their  morning  labors  behind  them,  their  eyes  instinc- 
tively and  together  sought  a  handsome  residence  on  a 
prominence  facing  the  sea,  with  every  mark  of  wealth  in 
its  surroundings.  A  gentleman  in  smoking- jacket  could 
be  seen  scanning  the  horizon,  through  a  field-glass,  from 
the  parapet. 

"It's  himsel'!"  said  the  first  woman,  breathlessly.  "It's 
himsel'!" 


VULCAN  AND  VENUS  271 

"This  is  th'  third  saison  he's  been  here,  isn't  it?" 

"It  is,"  answered  her  friend,  dryly;  "an'  what's  more, 
he  kept  th'  saison  th'  whole  year  through,  fer  he  never 
went  Back  to  London  at  all  this  winther,  though  his  sis- 
ther  did." 

"He  said  he  could  find  finer  scenery  for  his  picthures 
in  Connemara  than  anywhere  else,"  explained  her  friend. 

"He  was  a  long  time  findin'  it  out." 

"An'  he  had  to  paint  picthures  of  fisherwomen  an' 
rocks,  an'  he  had  to  have  pattherns  to  work  from,  an'  he 
axed  Vanus  to  be  a  patthern." 

"  Tis  sthrange  that  he  never  axed  ye  nor  me."  This 
more  dryly. 

"He  axed  ould  Fannie  Bradshaw  an'  Peggy  Finton, 
an'  th'  same  women  are  as  ould  as  ye  an'  I  put  together, 
an'  he  dhrew  them  like  life  just  comin'  out  of  th' 
wather " 

"An'  he  dhrew  Vanus  comin'  out  of  th'  wather,  too, 
wid  a  wisp  of  a  green  dhress  on  her,  so  I  heerd." 

"Yes,  but  his  sisther  was  there  all  th'  time,  an'  she 
was  th'  one  that  axed  Vulcan  to  let  her  brother  take  his 
wife's  likeness." 

"How  could  she  be  there  when  she  was  in  London, 
or  Dublin,  or  wheresomever  th'  likes  of  them  go?  But 
it  isn't  thrue  about  Vanus  anyway.  She  was  a  dacent 
father  an'  mother's  child." 

"He  never  was  married,"  continued  her  f fiend,  after 
a  pause. 

"No,  but  he's  ould  enough — nearly  thirty;  but  he's 
goin'  to  be  married  to  a  very  rich  lady  in  London  next 
fall." 

"That's  th'  first  I've  heerd  of  that." 
is 


272  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Arrah,  who'd  we  hear  it  from?  His  groom  told  it 
in  Vulcan's  forge  two  days  ago,  when  he  was  gettin' 
his  horses  shod.  Vanus  was  there  lookin'  on,  an'  she  fell 
down  like  a  stone  you'd  dhrop  into  th'  wather,  an'  never 
spoke  afther." 

"Hm!"  said  the  other  woman,  significantly.  "D'ye 
think  it  was  that  med  her  dhrop  ?  Maybe  th'  sickness  was 
comin'  on  anyway." 

"There's  two  things  I  don't  believe  in,"  continued  the 
first :  "  One  is — marryin'  a  girl  to  a  man  ould  enough  to 
be  her  father,  an'  th'  other  is " 

"Bein'  a  patthern  for  anyone's  picthures?"  interpo- 
lated the  other. 

"No,  goin'  among  those  rich  people,  who  think  th' 
poor  have  no  souls." 

"But  Captain  Rowland  is  one  of  th'  ould  stock,  an' 
knows  th'  people  like  a  book." 

"He  had  an  English  mother." 

"What  of  that?  He  thought  too  much  of  his  father's 
people  to " 

"I  hope  he  didn't  think  too  much  of  poor  Vanus. 
What  med  Vulcan  marry  so  young  a  girl?  He's  ould 
enough  to  be  her  father." 

"Th'  ould  folks.  They  wanted  to  see  her  settled  be- 
fore they  died,  an'  Vulcan  was  industrious  an'  comforta- 
ble. They  had  but  two  childer — a  boy  an'  a  girl." 

"Where's  th' boy?" 

"Sorra,  one  of  me  knows.  He  was  handsome,  too. 
He  went  down  th'  country  somewhere  when  th'  ould 
people  died." 

"Hush!  there's  th'  smithy  now.  Th'  forge  is  cold, 
an'  th'  windys  in  th'  house  are  wide  open." 


VULCAN  AND  VENUS  273 

"I'd  go  a  mile  out  of  me  way  rather  than  pass  it  since 
I  heerd  th'  story.  Let  us  go  around  be  Bena  McCul- 
lah " 


"An'  carry  our  baskets  two  miles  furder?  God  for- 
give ye !  We  needn't  go  inside  unless  ye  like.  Oh !  but 
it's  th'  lonesome  thing — this  death  an'  disgrace  hangin' 
over  it.  See,  th'  crowd's  all  outside." 

"I  don't  like  th'  looks  of  things.    Let  us  hurry  by." 

"An'  cast  a  slight  on  th'  poor  woman?  No;  dhrop  in 
an'  say  a  prayer  fer  her  soul  as  if  everythin'  was  all 
right,  an'  be  done  wid  it." 

While  they  were  hesitating,  the  air  suddenly  darkened, 
giving  notice  that  one  of  the  downpours,  so  common  in 
the  mountainous  country,  was  about  to  come.  Everyone 
ran  for  shelter.  Early  as  the  hour  was,  the  rumor  of 
death  had  brought  its  crowd  of  curiosity  seekers.  Some 
were  pure  vultures — beggars  who  could  or  would  not 
work,  and  who  came  for  their  share  of  good  things, 
usually  distributed  at  and  during  the  period  of  mourning. 
Some  were  gossips  who,  having  heard  an  inkling  of 
the  trouble,  were  anxious  for  confirmation;  there  were 
also  egglers  and  huxters  of  all  ages  who,  like  reporters 
on  the  staff  of  a  great  city  paper,  were  anxious  for  the 
first  "straight"  news  to  carry  to  the  next  village;  and, 
last  but  not  least,  were  the  kind  neighbors  who  came  to 
be  of  assistance  in  the  hour  of  need. 

Added  to  the  darkness,  a  stillness  as  of  death  fell  over 
everything.  Not  a  leaf  moved.  Even  the  birds  were  si- 
lent, and  the  goats  and  sheep  seemed  to  forget  their 
customary  bleat.  The  clouds  hung  so  low  over  the 
mountains  as  to  appear  to  be  within  reach,  and  the  waves 
dashed  in  on  the  beach  in  a  threatening  manner. 


274  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

The  blacksmith's  home  was  a  long,  low  building,  with 
the  smithy  attached.  It  was  more  pretentious  than  the 
usual  mountain  cabin,  and  possessed  two  windows  and  a 
little  garden  in  front,  in  which  were  trained  a  couple  of 
climbing  rose-bushes,  while  at  the  back  could  be  seen  a 
well-kept  patch  of  potatoes.  It  was  a  comfortable  home, 
and  many  had  envied  the  mistress  of  it  and  heartily 
wished  themselves  in  her  place,  but  not  to-day — no,  not 
to-day ! 

The  people  were  crowding  everywhere  out  of  the 
storm,  except  into  the  house.  The  smithy,  with  its  gray, 
lifeless  forge,  was  packed,  and  everyone  was  talking  in 
mysterious  whispers.  The  two  limpet-gatherers  en- 
sconced themselves  behind  a  rock,  at  the  other  side  of 
which  a  pair  of  beggar-women  were  discussing  the  affairs 
of  the  county,  the  present  case  being  on  top,  as  most 
sensational. 

"She  left  a  fine  home  an'  a  good  husband,  not  a  bet- 
ther  in  th'  whole  Barony." 

"They  say  she  had  even  a  boarded  floor  on  her  par- 
lor." 

"I  wouldn't  wondher.  He'd  thry  to  take  a  star  out  o' 
th'  sky  fer  her,  if  she  axed  fer  it,  so  he  would." 

"An'  is  there  to  be  no  wake,  d'ye  think?" 

"I  don't  think,  fer  th'  honor  of  th'  family,  that  he'd 
refuse  to  give  her  a  wake." 

"Sure  she  has  no  family.  This  is  her  first  child 
an' " 

"They  have  been  married  seven  years." 

"Seven  years  is  a  mighty  long  time." 

"What's  the  matther  here  this  mornin'?"  inquired  an- 
other woman  behind  them,  and  the  fisherwomen  recog- 


VULCAN  AND  VENUS  275 

nized  another  beggar,  nicknamed  "the  lady"  on  account 
of  the  dignity  with  which  she  carried  on  her  business. 

"Ah,  then,  where  wor  ye  that  ye  didn't  hear  th'  news?" 
asked  her  friend. 

"I  was  away  dose  t'ree  monts  be  raison  av  a  cure  I 
have  fer  warts.  Misther  Donovan's  sisther-in-law's  cou- 
sin's nephew  had  one  on  th'  end  o'  his  nose,  which  was 
mighty  inconvanyant,  as  well  as  unbecoming  an'  very 
much  in  th'  way  of  his  gettin'  a  wife,  his  intentions  bein' 
to  look  afther  a  girl  of  fortun'.  It  tuk  me  all  me 
time » 

"Wot's  wrang  in  Wulcan's  place?"  asked  "English 
Polly,"  pushing  her  head  in  between  the  friends,  on 
which  rested  a  basket  of  shell-fish,  still  dripping. 

"Vanus  is  dead,  her  child  is  livin'  an'  Vulcan  is  goin' 
crazy  an'  lookin'  fer  someone  to  murdther.  There  it  is 
fer  ye  now  in  a  nutshell,  as  th'  preachers  say.  Go  on 
now  an'  sell  yer  periwinkles  afore  th'  sun  dhries  them 
up,  me  good  woman." 

"Misther  Donovan,"  said  the  genteel  solicitor,  resum- 
ing her  narrative  from  her  post  behind  the  rock,  "thrated 
me  wid  great  distinction.  I  was  up  in  th'  parlor  wid  him 
an'  his  wife,  tellin'  me  expariencies  an'  singin'  songs. 
Th'  sarvants  wor  tould  to  give  me  th'  best  of  atin'  an' 
dhrinkin' " 

"Wulcan  thought  lots  of  'is  wife.  'E  did  everything 
for  'er  has  'e  knew  'ow,"  interrupted  English  Polly. 

"An'  why  not?"  said  the  first  beggar-woman,  glibly. 
"Wasn't  he  ould  enough  to  be  her  father?  An'  wasn't 
she  th'  prettiest  girl  in  th'  county  ?" 

"He  doesn't  seem  to  think  much  about  her  now,"  put 
in  the  second  woman,  "when  he  refuses  to  give  her  a 


276       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

wake,  an'  half  the  Barony  anxious  to  go  to  it,"  and  she 
sighed. 

"He's  a  misard,  wid  whiska  at  sixpence  a  quart,  an'  th' 
bulk  of  th'  people  havin'  th'  pledge.  A  little  of  spirits  'ud 
go  a  long  way.  I  was  willin'  to  sit  up  an'  do  me  duty, 
if  there  was  only  a  little  widin  raich,  bekase  be  raison  of 
th'  throuble  wid  me  heart " 

"  'Er  was  a  rale  purty  'un,  hand  'e  was  has  'omly  has 
a  lobster.  Hi  hoften  wondered  'ow  'er  bided  wi'  'im,  that 
Hi  did,"  muttered  English  Polly. 

"An'  did  ye  expect  her  to  go  aff  wid  another  man? 
Ye're  dhramin',  woman.  This  is  Connemara,"  and  the 
beggar-woman  favored  the  rest  with  a  wink. 

"Says  Misther  Donovan  to  th'  sarvants,  'Don't  meddle 
wid  th'  lady,'  manin'  meself.  'Let  her  come  an'  go,'  "  said 
Mr.  Donovan's  guest,  full  of  pleasant  recollections. 

"  'Er  was  has  purty  has  a  periwinkle,  hand  'e  was  has 
'omly  has  a  lobster,"  reiterated  English  Polly,  regret- 
fully. 

"Ay,  'Beauty  an'  th'  Beast,'  'Vulcan  an'  Venus,'  I'm 
used  to  th'  names.  I  didn't  care  what  anyone  called  me, 
as  long  as  she  was  happy " 

The  women  shrank  back,  for  before  them  was  the  big 
blacksmith.  His  eyes  were  bloodshot  and  fierce,  his 
countenance  dark  and  forbidding,  and  his  heavy  black 
hair  matted  and  disordered.  His  arms,  with  the  sleeves 
still  rolled  up,  were  folded  across  his  huge  chest,  and  his 
leather  apron  hung  awry,  exposing  a  pair  of  legs,  bowed 
as  if  from  the  weight  of  his  monstrous  body.  The  veins 
in  his  forehead  and  neck  were  full  to  bursting,  and  the 
sinews  in  his  arms  stood  out  like  whipcords. 

"Hi  didn't  mane  hany  'arm,"  apologized  English  Polly. 
"For  sure  Hi  didn't." 


VULCAN  AND  VENUS  277 

"  Twas  McTigue,  th'  schoolmasther,  stuck  that  name 
on  ye  first,"  said  the  limpet-gatherer,  coming  to  the  res- 
cue of  her  craft,  "an'  people  forgot  at  last  that  ye  wor 
christened  like  anybody  else." 

"Ay,  Pether  an'  Nancy  wor  names  good  enough  for 
th'  best,"  asserted  the  limpet  woman,  soothingly. 

"Now,  what  do  ye  all  want  here?"  inquired  the  man, 
fiercely.  "Did  ye  come  to  glory  in  my  shame?" 

The  women  huddled  together  and  trembled.  This  man 
before  them  was  surely  not  the  Vulcan  of  their  knowl- 
edge, the  Vulcan  who  had  been  good-natured  and  kindly- 
spoken,  simple  and  trustful,  a  Vulcan  whose  hand  the 
neighbors'  children  had  taken  confidingly,  and  on  whose 
broad  breast  they  had  often  slept.  This  man,  so  terrible 
and  defiant  in  the  hush  of  the  coming  storm,  must  belong 
to  another  species ;  and  then  someone  remembered  that  a 
visitor  who  came  to  admire  the  scenery,  but  who  also 
found  time  to  sit  in  the  smithy  and  admire  the  black- 
smith, had  once  said  with  emphasis  : 

"Vulcan  is  a  very  good  man — to  let  alone." 

"What  did  ye  all  come  here  fer,  I  say?" 

The  glib  tongues  were  all  silent.  A  cry,  a  wild  cry 
of  agony  was  carried  along  on  the  heavy  air,  and  a  couple 
of  women,  muffled  up  in  long  cloaks  and  hoods,  came  in 
sight.  Louder  and  louder  rose  the  cry,  which  heralded 
the  approach  of  the  death-watch. 

"The  keeners,  the  keeners !"  said  the  crowd,  breath- 
lessly. 

"Stop  that!"  said  the  blacksmith,  authoritatively. 
"Stop  that!  There  will  be  no  wake  here." 

The  cry  of  a  child  came  like  an  answer — a  remon- 
strance to  his  fierce  words — and  the  cry  was  shrill  and 


278  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

feeble,  like  that  of  one  who  was  testing  his  lungs  in  a 
new  world  and  was  not  quite  sure  of  his  reception. 

"It's  th'  child,"  said  the  women,  in  a  chorus  of  infi- 
nite pity  and  long-drawn  breaths,  as  if  choked  by  tears, 
and  two  of  them  ran  toward  the  house. 

"Back,  back,  I  say!"  cried  Vulcan.  "Go  back  to  yer 
homes,  all  of  ye ;  th'  child  dies  with  his  mother." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment  as  the  women  stood 
irresolute,  when  one,  more  daring  than  the  rest,  returned 
and  shook  her  hand  in  his  face.  "It's  pure  murdther,  so 
it  is,  an'  I  fer  one  won't  stand  to  see  it  done.  Whatever 
faut  ye  have  wid  th'  mother,  ye  mustn't  punish  th'  poor 
innocent  child  fer  it." 

The  people  were  waiting  breathlessly  for  the  answer, 
when  a  tall,  handsome  young  man,  with  an  eager,  in- 
quiring look  in  his  eyes,  pushed  through  the  crowd  and 
asked : 

"Can  any  of  ye  tell  me  where  Peter  Fair,  the  black- 
smith, lives?" 

As  the  people  hesitated,  he  added,  looking  around  the 
crowd  with  a  friendly  smile,  "I  was  only  a  gossoon" 
(boy)  "when  I  left  here,  so  I  suppose  none  of  ye  know 
me.  Me  sisther  Nancy  marrit  Peter  Fair,  the  blacksmith, 
and  when  me  father  an'  mother  died,  I  went  to  me  uncle 
in  Kilrush.  I'm  now  on  me  way  to  America,  an'  I 
couldn't  go  till  I  saw  me  sisther,  as  she  was  all  that  was 
left  to  me." 

The  women  turned  away  and  wept,  and  the  youth  saw 
the  blacksmith,  whom  he  immediately  recognized. 

"You  are  Peter,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand.  The 
blacksmith  folded  his  arms  tighter  over  his  breast,  and 
looked  him  darkly  in  the  face.  , 


VULCAN  AND  VENUS  279 

"I  am  Pether  Fair,  th'  blacksmith,  who  marrit  yer  sis- 
ther,"  he  said.  "She  is  inside.  Go  an'  see  her." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  malignancy  of  his  brother- 
in-law's  aspect,  nor  the  significant  looks  of  the  people. 
And  this  was  Connemara,  with  its  warm-hearted  inhab- 
itants !  This  was  the  place  and  these  were  the  old  neigh- 
bors he  was  always  dreaming  of !  The  young  man's 
eyes  grew  dark  with  doubt  and  fear  of  he  knew  not 
what.  There  was  a  suspicion  of  tears  in  his  voice,  as  he 
said  with  an  effort: 

"Very  well.     I  will  go  inside  an'  see  me  sisther." 

At  these  words  the  storm,  so  long  delayed,  bunst  forth 
in  all  its  fury,  and  the  people,  now  that  the  ice  was  broken, 
followed  the  brother's  lead  out  of  the  rain  and  into  the 
house  of  the  dead. 

Two  women  were  caring  for  the  child,  and  it  was  some 
time  before  the  people  coming  in  from  the  light  of  day 
could  distinguish  objects  in  the  portion  of  it  that  filtered 
through  a  small  diamond-paned  window.  The  rain  fell 
in  torrents,  and  the  thunder  burst  over  the  mountains 
in  a  deafening  roar.  This  was  succeeded  by  lightning 
that  flashed  from  peak  to  peak  and  filled  the  little  room 
with  a  blinding  light.  It  played  over  the  bed,  where  lay 
the  body  of  a  woman.  The  face  was  uncovered,  and  the 
long  yellow  hair  fell  over  and  touched  the  floor.  A  cry 
of  horror  burst  from  the  crowds  that  filled  every  availa- 
ble place. 

The  young  man  threw  himself  down  in  an  agony  of 
tears  and  kissed  the  dead  face  again  and  again.  The 
women  wept  with  him,  for  they  had  often  heard  her  speak 
of  this  brother  and  of  her  desire  to  see  him,  but  they  kept 
aloof  and  silent. 


280       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

The  young  man  rose  and,  checking  his  sobs,  looked 
from  one  face  to  the  other  in  search  of  information. 

The  blacksmith  stood  at  the  window,  looking  up  at  the 
sky,  seeming  to  watch  the  warring  of  the  elements  with 
satisfaction  as  compatible  with  his  thoughts ;  but  his  face 
was  set  like  cement,  and  his  lips  were  shut,  as  if  held  in 
a  vise.  He  shed  no  tear,  he  expressed  no  regret. 

Was  this  man  his  sister's  husband,  the  man  into  whose 
care  his  dying  mother  had  confided  the  idol  of  her  heart  ? 
Was  this  the  way  he  had  fulfilled  his  trust?  Was  this 
indifference  to  her  loss  the  sign  of  a  devoted  husband? 
The  young  man  was  puzzled. 

"What  has  me  poor  sisther  done?"  he  cried.  "What 
has  she  done?" 

He  was  answered  by  a  clap  of  thunder  that  seemed  to 
shake  the  stout  cottage  to  its  very  foundation. 

Again  the  forked  lightning  darted  into  every  crack  and 
cranny  of  the  long,  low  room,  and  illumined  the  beautiful 
face  that  lay  prone  in  death.  Under  the  momentary 
gleam,  the  features  seemed  to  take  on  a  semblance  to 
life  that  was  startling.  Women  screamed  and  fainted. 

Not  in  the  memory  of  anyone  present  had  such  a  storm 
— -and  the  mountaineers  were  used  to  storms — occurred 
in  that  section  of  the  country. 

The  young  man  looked  at  the  people.  There  was  a 
mystery  connected  with  his  sister's  death.  What  was  it? 

"What  has  me  sisther  done?"  he  asked  again,  pite- 
ously.  "What  has  me  sisther  done?" 

"Nothing — that  can   be  proved;   nothing." 

The  speaker  was  a  new-comer,  and  was  scattering  rain- 
drops as  he  walked.  He  was  big,  burly,  and  determined- 
looking,  with  a  florid  but  kindly  face.  "Father  Tom!" 


VULCAN  AND  VENUS  281 

said  the  female  portion  of  those  present,  in  various  tones 
of  relief. 

"Peter  Fair,  you  can  prove  nothing  against  your  wife. 
Be  merciful  and  let  the  dead  rest,"  said  the  clergyman. 

"God  bless  ye  for  these  words,  whoever  ye  are,"  cried 
the  young  man,  convulsively. 

"  I  have  proof  enough  fer  myself.  I  ask  no  one  to  be- 
lieve me.  I  want  no  witness  to  my  trouble.  Those  peo- 
ple are  intrudin'.  I  want  nobody." 

"Didn't  your  wife  ask  for  me  in  her  dying  hours?" 
demanded  the  priest. 

"She  never  spoke  afther  she  heard  th'  captain  was 
goin'  to  be  marrit,  but  dhropped  like  a  stone  that  ye 
throw  into  Lough  Inagh." 

"That  news  may  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  answered 
the  priest,  quickly. 

"Yer  reverence,"  said  a  woman  who  had  come  in  qui- 
etly from  the  kitchen,  "th'  child  won't  live,  I'm  thinkin'. 
It  would  be  as  well  to  baptize  it  now." 

"Baptism!"  echoed  the  smith,  scornfully.  "What  good 
would  baptism  do  th'  likes  o'  him?" 

"Peter  Fair,  I  command  you  to  cast  no  suspicion  on 
the  dead.  And  what  is  your  idea  of  trying  to  deprive 
the  innocent  child  of  the  sacrament  of  baptism  ?" 

"In  whose  name  will  ye  baptize  it?  Answer  me  that, 
answer  me  that." 

"In  the  name  of  God,  man — in  the  name  of  God,  who 
never  denies  any  of  His  children,"  answered  the  priest, 
after  a  pause. 

"Well,  then,  I  lave  him  to  God,  fer  I'll  have  none  of 
him.  I  claim  none  of  him.  D'ye  hear?  I  claim  none 
of  him." 


282       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"What  d'ye  mean,  man?  What  suspicion  are  ye 
castin'  on  yer  wife  ?"  And  the  young  stranger  shook  his 
fists  in  the  blacksmith's  face. 

"Vulcan,  Vulcan,  are  ye  mad?  Don't  hurt  th'  boy! 
Sure  ye  wouldn't  sthrike  him !"  came  from  all  around. 

The  blacksmith,  conscious  of  his  superior  strength, 
looked  down  on  the  slight  stripling  before  him,  as  a  lion 
might  look  at  a  spaniel. 

"I've  no  intention  of  hurtin'  him,"  he  said;  "only  let 
him  keep  out  of  my  way." 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  the  clergyman,  as  he  led  the 
young  man  away. 

"I  am  Nancy's  brother,  an'  came  to  see  her,  only  to 
find  her  dead  an'  her  man " 

"You  are  little  Con,"  said  the  priest,  softly.  "I  did 
not  know  you  at  first ;  but  you  are  like  her,  very  like  her." 

"Oh,  me  sisther,  me  sisther!"  sobbed  the  young  man. 

"Yes,  she  was  yer  sisther,  boy;  but  she  was  my  wife, 
fer  seven  long  years  my  wife.  D'ye  know  what  that 
means  to  th'  like  o'  me  ?  I  was  no  younglin'  with  a  rovin' 
eye.  Fate  sent  an  innocent  young  girl  in  my  way,  an'  I 
med  her  my  wife.  I  worked  from  dawn  to  dark  to  make 
her  happy ;  fer  myself  I  had  no  wish  but  her  pleasure.  I 
would  gladly  eat  th'  crumbs  that  she  left  an'  be  con- 
tented. I  knew  she  was  fair  to  th'  eye ;  but  she  was  inno- 
cent when  I  received  her  from  her  mother's  arms,  an' 
I  thought,  in  time,  I  would  be  first  in  her  thoughts.  She 
was  yer  sisther,  boy;  but  she  was  my  wife.  She  was 
th'  light  of  my  eyes  an'  th'  joy  of  my  heart.  I  worked, 
an'  my  work  was  all  fer  her. 

"From  steady  practice  an'  because  my  soul  was  in  my 
work,  I  became  th'  best  workman  in  th'  county.  From 


VULCAN  AND  VENUS  283 

far  an'  near  th'  people  came  to  me,  an'  as  they  watched 
me  fashion  th'  glowin'  iron  into  th'  desired  shapes,  they 
called  me  Vulcan,  an'  like  a  fool  I  laughed  fer  joy.  I 
was  glad  that  I  was  skillful,  because  it  meant  luxuries  fer 
her.  I  laughed  as  I  worked,  because  each  blow  that 
sthruck  was  a  step  nearer  to  some  new  dress  or  other 
pretty  thing  she  looked  forward  to.  I  sang  as  th'  sparks 
flew,  fer  they  reminded  me  of  her,  always  so  gay,  an' 
so  anxious  to  fly  upward.  An'  if  each  spark  was  a  dhrop 
of  my  heart's  blood,  she  was  welcome  to  it. 

"She  was  fair  to  look  upon,  an'  sthrangers  turned  as 
she  passed  just  to  feast  their  eyes,  an'  I  was  proud  of  it. 
When  they  asked  me,  'Who  is  that  handsome  lass?'  or 
'Who  is  that  handsome  woman?'  I  answered  gleefully, 
'She  is  my  wife,'  an'  I  laughed  an'  she  laughed  in  th'  joy 
of  our  hearts,  fer  she  was  innocent  then.  She  came  an' 
went  as  she  chose,  fer  she  was  young  an'  th'  house  was 
dull ;  but  I,  Vulcan,  as  they  called  me,  remained  to  ham- 
mer away  an'  to  listen  fer  her  footsteps,  as  a  lover  would 
fer  his  mistress,  a  child  fer  th'  one  that  gave  him  birth 
an'  who  carried  in  her  breast  th'  sustenance  that  kept  him 
in  life.  She  carried  my  life  in  her  hands ;  she  is  gone,  so 
is  my  life.  When  her  innocence  departed  from  her,  th' 
life  departed  from  me." 

"Judge  not,  and  you  will  not  be  judged.  How  do  you 
know  that  your  wife's  innocence  had  departed?  Cease 
this  talk,"  interrupted  the  priest. 

"God  bless  ye  again  fer  those  words,"  said  the  woman's 
brother,  falling  on  his  knees  and  throwing  his  arm  over 
the  corpse,  while  he  passionately  kissed  the  cold  lips. 

At  this  the  keeners,  so  long  silent,  set  up  the  death- 
cry,  as  if  in  triumph  at  this  partial  vindication  of  the 


284  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

character  of  the  dead.  As  it  rose,  low  at  first,  like  the 
sighing  of  the  wind  among  the  trees  of  the  forest,  and 
then  swelling  into  the  wild  yet  sweet  cadence  of  mourn- 
ful sounds  for  which  Connemara  is  famous,  everyone 
was  moved  save  the  one  to  whom  she  was  dearest  in  life. 

With  his  arms  still  folded  across  his  broad  breast,  he 
listened  in  bitter  silence.  Before  the  poetic  lamentations 
had  reached  the  second  verse,  he  raised  his  hand  authori- 
tatively and  demanded  silence. 

"Stop  this  noise,  an'  leave  me  alone.  D'ye  hear?  I 
wish  to  be  alone.  An'  remember,  Father  Tom,  that  yer 
authority  extends  only  where  it  is  allowed.  I  am  not  of 
yer  fold." 

"True  for  you,  Peter;  but  you  never  denied  Nancy  the 
privilege  of  her  church,"  said  the  priest,  putting  away  his 
stole,  after  baptizing  the  child.  "You  never  denied 
her » 

"I  never  denied  her  anything,  an'  look  at  me  now," 
answered  the  man,  bitterly. 

"You  remember  that  I  warned  you  two  or  three  times 
not  to  allow  your  wife  so  much  liberty,"  said  the  priest. 
"Without  saying  one  word  against  the  dead,  I  objected, 
as  I  always  object,  to  a  young  and  lovely  woman  going 
alone  among  people  who  were  so  much  beyond  her  in 
station " 

What  more  he  might  have  said  was  cut  short  by  an- 
other clap  of  thunder,  which  was  all  the  more  startling 
that  the  storm  was  supposed  to  have  spent  its  fury  and 
to  have  left  the  mountains  in  peace.  Again  the  lightning 
played  around  the  death-couch,  and  again  the  beautiful 
face  of  the  dead  woman  shone  with  the  animation  of  life. 
Again  the  people  shuddered  and  cowered  from  they  knew 
not  what. 


VULCAN  AND  VENUS  285 

In  the  midst  of  the  excitement,  the  sound  of  horses' 
hoofs  could  be  heard,  and  two  riders,  a  lady  and  her 
groom,  dashed  into  the  shelter  of  the  smithy.  In  a  mo- 
ment the  lady  made  her  way  into  the  dwelling-house  and, 
with  her  riding  habit  gathered  in  her  hands,  stood  in  the 
midst  of  the  mourners. 

"Lady  Basset!"  was  whispered  from  lip  to  lip  as  the 
great  lady  made  her  way  in,  and  those  who  were  awed 
in  the  presence  of  death  were  more  awed  in  the  presence 
of  the  living.  The  priest  bowed  as  he  stood  aside  for  her ; 
but  the  blacksmith,  with  his  arms  still  folded,  looked  at 
her  darkly  and  never  moved.  She  started  as  though  to  go 
to  the  couch,  but  the  priest  whispered  something  in  her 
ear.  She  hesitated,  and  looked  from  one  face  to  the  other, 
and  then,  as  one  accustomed  to  have  her  way,  continued 
her  course  and  stood  looking  down  at  the  dead. 

"Good  heavens !"  she  cried.  "Surely  this  is  not  Venus, 
the  beautiful  girl  who  posed  for  my  brother's  famous 
picture  ?" 

"  Her  name  was  Nancy,  if  th'  poor  are  allowed  to  have 
a  name,"  said  the  blacksmith,  bitterly;  "an'  she  was  my 
wife,  but  of  course  that  was  no  matter." 

"Excuse  me,"  said  the  great  lady,  looking  hard  at  the 
dark  face  before  her.  "I  forgot.  But  she  made  such  a 
beautiful  'Venus'  that  I  always  connect  the  name  with 
her;  and,  oh,  I  am  so  sorry!  What  did  she  die  of?" 

"She  was  murdered,  madam,  cruelly  murdered." 

The  lady  was  terribly  shocked.  "Murdered!"  she 
echoed.  "How  shocking,  and  we  never  heard  of  it! 
Who  is  the  murderer?  Let  him  not  escape." 

"He  will  not,"  said  the  blacksmith,  significantly.  "He 
will  not.  I  myself  will  punish  him  lest  th'  law  lag,  as  is 
often  th'  case  when  th'  poor  are  injured." 


286       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Oh,  dear!"  ejaculated  the  lady.  This  strong  speech 
was  not  often  heard  in  her  circle;  but  the  man  was  ex- 
cited, and  of  course  forgot  the  respect  due  to  her  pres- 
ence. It  was  decidedly  interesting  and  bizarre,  and 
smacked  strongly  of  the  dramatic.  Her  brother  might 
work  this  scene  into  another  picture. 

"And  you  know  the  murderer?"  She  was  becoming 
interested  in  the  annals  of  the  poor. 

"Yes,  I  know  him.  He  is  not  only  a  murderer,  but  a 
thief.  He  stole  her  reputation  as  well  as  her  life,  an' 
robbed  me  of  everything  worth  livin'  for.  I  shall  never 
rest  till  I  am  fully  revenged." 

"He  must  be  a  very  bad  man,"  she  said;  "but  why  not 
leave  his  punishment  to  the  proper  authorities?" 

"There  is  no  law  fer  th'  poor,  as  I  told  ye.  No;  I  will 
be  his  executioner."  He  waved  his  huge  arm,  and  the 
lady  shuddered.  The  clergyman  was  distressed,  and 
anxious  to  save  the  aristocrat  from  what  he  knew  was 
coming.  The  blacksmith  read  his  thoughts. 

"Ye  remember,  lady,"  he  said,  "th'  first  time  ye  saw  my 
wife.  Ye  came  into  my  smithy  to  see  yer  chestnut  mare 
shod,  an'  thinkin'  Nancy  my  daughter,  ye  asked  my  per- 
mission to  bring  her  to  th'  castle  to  stand  as  a  patthern 
for  somethin'  yer  brother  was  drawin'.  Others  were 
also  asked,  an'  went.  As  I  could  not  bear  to  be  churlish 
I  consented,  though  my  heart  went  agin'  it.  Ye  were 
there,  an'  I  was  satisfied." 

The  lady  looked  puzzled.  She  grew  haughty.  "My 
brother,"  she  said,  "dabbled  in  art  against  my  wishes, 
and  came  to  Connemara  to  paint  the  sea  and  the  moun- 
tains. That  he  changed  from  inanimate  to  animate  things 
was  only  another  such  freak  as  leaving  the  barracks  for 


VULCAN  AND  VENUS  287 

the  studio."  Why  was  the  subject  mentioned?  What 
connection  had  her  brother  with  the  subject  in  hand? 

"Ye  w4ere  there,  an'  med  much  of  my  wife.  She  was 
delighted  with  th'  beautiful  house  an'  th'  pictures.  She 
told  me  everything,  an'  when  I  saw  how  fond  she  was  of 
fine  things,  I  worked  harder  to  give  her  something  bet- 
ter than  she  had.  She  grew  dissatisfied,  an'  moody  an' 
quiet.  She  no  longer  told  me  th'  doin's  of  th'  day.  She 
didn't  even  tell  me  that  ye  had  returned  to  London  an' 
left  yer  brother,  th'  captain,  among  th'  mountains  by  th' 
sea. 

"My  wife  grew  pale  an'  thin,  an'  quiet,  she  that  never 
was  a  minute  quiet  before.  She  no  longer  went  to  th' 
castle,  an'  when  I  came  on  her  she  was  cryin'.  I  thought 
mebbe  she  was  ill ;  but  th'  sickness  of  th'  mind  is  harder 
to  bear  than  th'  sickness  of  th'  body.  She  avoided  me, 
an'  I  had  my  own  bitther  thoughts.  She  was  in  th' 
forge  one  day,  sittin'  down-hearted  an'  unhappy,  when 
yer  brother's  servant  mentioned  carelessly  that  his  mas- 
ther  was  goin'  to  be  marrit  in  th'  spring.  She  fell  forward 
an'  never  spoke  more." 

The  lady's  look  was  of  the  haughtiest.  What  had 
this  to  do  with  the  point  in  question?  What  was  the 
man  insinuating?  She  had  listened  too  long.  These  poor 
people  were  odd.  She  gathered  up  her  riding  habit  to 
go.  The  cry  of  a  child  was  borne  plaintively  to  her  ear. 
She  stopped. 

"You  never  told  me,"  she  said,  softly.  This  proud 
woman  was  a  childless  widow,  and  the  first  cry  of  her 
only  boy,  now  lying  in  the  family  vault,  was  always 
echoing  in  her  ears.  Poor  Venus !  Her  child  lived,  and 
she  was  deaf  to  his  cries.  The  tears  came  into  her  fine 
eyes  as  she  turned  in  sympathy  to  the  bereaved  man. 

19 


288  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"This  is  very  hard,"  she  muttered.  "You  never  told 
me  you  were  a  father."  The  answer  was  characteristic 
of  the  man. 

"I'm  not,"  he  said.  "That  boy's  father  is  th'  thief 
an'  murderer  I  told  ye  of — th'  man  that  robbed  me  of 
everything  worth  livin'  for — yer  brother." 

There  was  a  gasp  from  the  women.  The  priest  went 
to  the  lady  as  if  to  shield  her  from  the  brutal  blow,  but 
she  put  him  aside  and  faced  her  brother's  accuser. 

"How  dare  you!"  she  said,  and  even  as  she  said  the 
words,  she  weakened.  Her  face  was  deadly  pale,  and 
her  thoughts  were  busy  with  accusing  recollections.  The 
blacksmith  laughed  scornfully. 

"Ye  are  rich  an'  handsome,  like  yer  brother,"  he  said, 
"an'  belong  to  a  different  class.  I  am  only  poor  Vulcan. 
Th'  world  will  believe  yer  story — see,  even  th'  Church 
sides  with  an'  protects  ye ;  but  I  will  not  ask  fer  pity  nor 
justice.  I  will  take  it.  I  did  not  ask  ye  to  turn  my  wife's 
head  by  makin'  her  th'  patthern  fer  a  picture,  an'  ye  did 
not  care  what  mischief  came  of  it." 

"My  brother  is  engaged  to  be  married,"  she  said,  "to 
a  worthy  young  lady.  Why  should  he  demean  himself 
by  such  perfidy?" 

As  she  spoke  she  was  thinking  of  that  famous  picture, 
which  had  brought  her  spendthrift  brother,  at  the  lowest 
ebb  of  his  fortune,  to  the  notice  of  the  richest — not  pret- 
tiest— heiress  of  the  day,  and  winced  at  the  enormous  in: 
gratitude  as  well  as  perfidy  implied  in  the  accusation. 

"It's  not  true!"  she  cried.  "It's  not  true!  You  were 
jealous  of  your  beautiful  wife,  that  was  all." 

She  looked  for  acquiescence  to  her  words  in  the  faces 
around;  but  all  were  looking  away,  and  they  were  her 


VULCAN  AND  VENUS  289 

tenants,  most  of  them,  to  whom  she  might  look  for  re- 
spectful assent  to  her  words.  And  it  dawned  on  her  that 
this  was  Connemara,  where  the  poorest  woman's  reputa- 
tion was  held  as  a  priceless  crown,  and  where  no  woman, 
however  rich,  could  gain  respect  whose  record  was 
marred  by  a  flaw. 

"Lady  Basset,"  said  the  priest,  "you  had  better  go 
home,  even  in  the  storm.  This  man  is  insane  with  grief, 
and  will  think  better  of  his  words  to-morrow." 

"Never!"  said  the  man.  "Never!  I  am  no  jealous, 
unreasonable  fool,  as  these  people  all  know.  What  I  say 
I  have  proof  of,  an'  my  revenge  will  be  fer  my  wife 
as  well  as  fer  myself.  I  received  her  pure  an'  innocent 
from  her  mother's  arms — an'  she  scarce  seventeen — seven 
years  ago  yesterday.  I  owe  it  to  them  to  avenge  her,  an' 
I  will!" 

"You  talk  like  a  heathen,"  said  the  priest.  "  'Ven- 
geance is  mine,'  saith  the  Lord!  If  the  captain  has 
wronged  you,  leave  him  to  God." 

"What  do  you  intend  to  do?"  demanded  the  lady, 
wildly.  "You  are  held  responsible  before  the  law  for 
every  word  you  say,  and  you  will  be  duly  punished." 

"Th'  law!"  said  the  man,  scornfully.  "I  shall  satisfy 
myself  before  th'  law  knows  anything  about  me,  an'  then 
I  care  not  what  becomes  of  me.  There  are  mountain 
caves  in  plenty  wherein  to  hide,  but  I  shall  not  hide.  Let 
th'  law  take  its  course." 

Lady  Basset  felt  that  she  was  no  longer  the  great 
lady  to  this  terrible  man  whom  she  had  given  the  shoeing 
of  her  horses.  She  must  beg  for  her  brother's  life, — on 
her  knees,  if  necessary.  This  ignorant  peasant,  whom  she 
formerly  despised,  was  now  standing  on  his  rights  as 


290  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

a  man  and  a  fellow-creature,  and  she  must  descend  to  his 
level. 

"You  would  not  do  this  thing;  you  would  not  kill  my 
brother  on  a  suspicion  without  a  trial  ?  Oh,  Vulcan,  for 
heaven's  sake,  hear  me  !" 

"  I  hear  ye,  my  lady ;  but  it's  no  suspicion,  an'  as  sure 
as  I  lay  hands  on  him,  I  will  lay  him  as  low  as  she  lies 
to-day." 

Another  clap  of  thunder  followed  his  words.  The 
blacksmith  stood  in  the  door,  and  looked  up  the  road. 

"TV  captain  is  out,  an'  may  pass  th'  road  soon,"  whis- 
pered her  servant,  who  came  in  from  the  smithy. 

"Go  and  intercept  him.  Bring  him  by  the  McCullah 
Pass  while  I  reason  with  this  madman,"  directed  her 
ladyship,  in  the  same  low  tone,  and  the  man  ran  out  into 
the  storm. 

"This  is  a  mere  suspicion  on  your  part,"  interposed 
the  clergyman.  "You  are  wronging  your  wife  as  well  as 
this  lady's  brother.  Do  you  think  she  would  approve  of 
your  actions  to-day  ?  I  remember  her,  and  we  all  remem- 
ber her,  as  a  quiet,  well-behaved  woman.  Give  her  the 
benefit  of  the  doubt  which  must  exist  in  every  reasoning 
person's  mind  as  to  the  charge  you  lay  at  her  door.  Look 
at  her  face  as  it  lies  before  you!  Is  it  the  face  of  a 
wanton?  Oh,  if  she  could  only  speak  to  you,  she  would 
tell  a  different  story!" 

At  this  appeal,  a  low  wail  broke  from  the  women 
present,  and  the  great  lady's  face  was  wet  with  tears. 
The  blacksmith  was  moved.  His  great  chest  heaved,  but 
he  shed  no  tear  as  he  gazed  at  the  face  so  dear  to  him. 

The  lady  began  to  have  hope.  Would  this  grim- 
visaged  blacksmith  change  his  mind  ?  What  if  his  accusa- 


VULCAN  AND  VENUS  291 

tions  were  true  ?  Impossible !  Then  she  thought  of  her 
brother's  handsome  face  and  courtly  manners,  in  compari- 
son with  the  rough,  massive  figure  and  uncouth  speech  of 
the  worker  in  iron,  and  shuddered.  What  if  the  beautiful 
village  girl  so  mismated  should  have  made  the  same  com- 
parison ?  Good  heavens !  It  was  not  to  be  thought  of. 
She,  who  stooped  to  none,  must  stoop  to  anything — 
subterfuge,  explanation,  entreaty — to  save  the  life  of  her 
only  brother.  Fortunately  the  clergyman  was  with  her — 
the  priest  who  was  the  guardian  of  the  dead  woman's 
morals,  and  must  vouch  for  them  to  this  man  who  was 
of  a  different  creed.  The  plea  he  made  was  successful — 
she  would  follow  it. 

"Ay,  look  at  that  beautiful  face,  as  innocent  as  a  sleep- 
ing child !"  she  said,  going  over  to  the  couch.  "She  was 
too  fair  for  earth.  How  can  anyone  associate  such  a 
countenance  with  crime?  Shame,  shame  be  the  portion 
of  those  who  would !  I  can  vouch  for  my  brother,  who 
is,  and  always  has  been,  wedded  to  his  art.  He  looked  on 
your  wife  as  one  would  look  on  a  beautiful  scene,  or  a, 
glorious  sunset,  and  thanked  the  Great  Giver  of  all." 

Vulcan  was  evidently  softening  a  little,  and  the  people 
were  sobbing  their  approval  of  her  words.  It  was  a 
good  thing  to  know  that  her  neighbors  believed  in  the 
innocence  of  the  dead,  and  it  made  her  appeal  easier. 

"We  all  know,  but  we  often  forget,  that  women  in  a 
delicate  state  of  health  act  strangely.  Those  they  love 
are  often  treated  cavalierly,  and  in  contradiction  to  their 
inmost  thoughts.  This  poor  young  woman  had  no  idea 
that  you  would  use  the  little  inconsistencies,  arising  at 
such  a  critical  time,  to  her  disadvantage." 

The  mountaineers  were  used  to  plainer  speech,  but  they 
understood  every  word. 


292       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

Vulcan's  breast  heaved  and  his  lips  parted  as  if  for 
speech,  but  they  closed  again.  He  spoke  at  last,  and  his 
voice  was  low,  deep,  and  penetrating,  and  reminded  one 
of  thunder  among  the  hills. 

"If  I  have  injured  ye  in  thought,  word,  or  deed," 
he  said,  looking  down  at  the  face  lying  so  still  and  quiet, 
"I  humbly  ask  pardon  of  ye,  my  darlin',  an'  I  ask  it  of 
God.  Mebbe  it's  thrue  what  th'  lady  says,  mebbe  it's 
thrue ;  but  I  loved  ye  an'  I've  lost  ye,  an'  that's  enough. 
They  talk  an'  talk,  but  my  heart  is  a  stone.  Ye're  gone, 
an'  I  won't  be  long  after  ye.  I  have  nothin'  now  to  live 
fer.  Ye  won't  'need  a  new  dress,  my  darlin',  an'  stand 
at  th'  door  to  see  th'  sparks  fly  as  I  work  fer  it.  Ye 
need  only  th'  dress  of  th'  grave,  my  jewel,  an'  th'  forge 
will  be  as  cold  as  yer  bed,  fer  I  will  never  stand  near  it 
again.  Oh,  we  were  happy  by  th'  same  forge  before  th' 
great  lady  came  an'  praised  yer  beauty,  an'  th'  man  with 
th'  smilin'  face  an'  th'  white  hands  talked  softly  to  ye, 
an'  put  ye  in  a  picture !  There  was  a  change  in  ye  after 
that.  I  blame  him,  not  ye,  my  darlin'.  Ye  were  simple  an' 
ignorant  of  grand  ways,  an'  he  was  used  to  deceit." 

"Leave  him  to  God,  Vulcan;  leave  him  to  God,"  in- 
terrupted the  priest,  hurriedly,  "and  if  he  has  injured 
you " 

"Aye,  ye  spoke  right;  I  will  leave  him  to  God,  th'  God 
of  my  fathers,  th'  God  that  none  can  deceive.  He  knows 
all  things.  He  knows  how  I  suffer.  If  I  have  injured  my. 
darlin'  by  my  unjust  suspicions,  I  deserve  death.  Let  it 
come.  If  he — th'  sweet-spoken  gentleman — "  He  strode 
to  the  window  and  looked  up  at  the  angry  sky ;  the  clouds 
were  so  low  that  they  seemed  to  be  almost  within  reach ; 
and  the  blacksmith  opened  the  casement  and  leaned  out, 


VULCAN  AND  VENUS  293 

raising  his  huge  right  arm  high  over  his  head, — "if  he  has 
injured  her,  let  Him,  th'  great  God,  who  is  no  respecter  of 
persons,  choose  between  us — between  Vulcan,  th'  black- 
smith, an'  Captain  Rowland,  next  heir  to  an  earldom. 
Let  Him  choose  between  us  an'  punish  th'  guilty  one  by 
sending  down  His  thunderbolts  on  th'  head  of  th'  guilty 
man !" 

Everyone  shuddered  and,  as  if  in  answer  to  his  prayer, 
a  clap  of  thunder,  the  most  terrible  that  had  been  yet 
heard,  burst  over  the  cabin,  shook  it  like  a  match-box, 
and  resounded  from  peak  to  peak  in  a  hundred  reverbera- 
tions. The  women  shrieked,  and  all  covered  their  eyes 
from  sight  of  the  daring  man,  whom  they  felt  was  struck 
by  death. 

The  blacksmith  stood  in  the  same  attitude  as  the  storm 
abated,  and  the  people  breathed  freer,  but  were  preparing 
to  leave  at  once. 

"It's  no  place  fer  any  havin'  th'  grace  of  God  in  their 
hearts !  no  supper,  no  wake,  no  keenin',  no  nothin',  an'  a 
crazy  man  blasphemin'  God !  It's  enough  to  mek  anyone 
shiver.  Isn't  th'  woman  dead?  an'  can't  he  take  things 
comfortable,  an'  give  a  dacent  wake  that  would  be  remem- 
bered fer  a  long  time,  an'  have  a  Mass  said  that  would 
help  her  soul  to  glory  ?  Come  away !  Such  onraisonable 
people,  indeed,  I  never  saw,"  whispered  a  beggar-woman 
to  another  of  her  craft ;  but  the  neighbors,  who  had  come 
in  daily  contact  with  the  unfortunate  man,  and  who  still 
retained  a  warm  feeling  for  him,  were  slow  to  move. 
They  were  home-bodies,  and  missed  the  liberal  education 
acquired  by  constant  traveling  from  hamlet  to  hamlet  that 
had  contributed  to  broaden  the  views  of  the  mendicants. 
They  were  stunned,  and  waited  the  next  act  unconsciously, 
like  people  at  a  play. 


294       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

It  came.  There  was  a  lull  in  the  storm,  and  in  the 
death-like  silence  that  followed,  the  galloping  of  a  horsd 
smote  on  the  shocked  ears  like  a  desecration.  It  was  my 
lady's  groom,  sent  to  warn  her  brother  to  take  another 
road.  He  stopped  in  front  of  the  smithy,  and  seemed 
frightened  out  of  his  wits. 

"Is  my  lady  here?"  he  called  hurriedly  to  some  persons 
who  were  crowding  at  the  door,  and  then,  without  waiting 
for  an  answer,  he  added,  "Fer  God's  sake,  keep  her  inside 
fer  a  few  minutes,  till  we  pass.  We — somebody,  I  mean, 
can  break  th'  news  to  her  at  th'  castle  later.  Keep  her 
back,  I  say !" 

It  was  too  late.  Lady  Basset  had  seen  him,  and  the 
crowd  made  way  for  her  respectfully,  in  full  time  to  see 
the  mournful  cortege — four  men  carrying  another  on  a 
hastily-improvised  litter,  covered  with  their  ragged  coats. 

It  was  too  late  also  to  think  of  the  right  thing  to  do. 
Maybe  the  terrible  expression  on  the  groom's  face  drew 
her  attention,  or  her  own  misgivings  supplied  the  rest; 
but  she  knew,  and  dropped  into  a  merciful  unconscious- 
ness at  the  side  of  the  rude  bier. 

"Th'  captain  was  sthruck  by  that  last  great  clap,  just 
as  I  kem  up  wid  him — sthruck  dead !  He  never  spoke 
afther.  G©d  help  my  lady!  He's  her  only  brother,  an' 
God  help  th'  girl  that's  expectin'  to  marry  him,"  said  the 
man. 

"He  never  spoke  afther,"  repeated  a  listener;  "but  did 
he  speak  before?" 

"Not  a  word — yes,  he  only  asked  me  what  th'  crowd 
was  doin'  around  th'  blacksmith's  place,"  said  one  of  the 
ragged  carriers. 

"Well?" 


VULCAN  AND  VENUS  295 

"Well,  I  just  tould  th'  gentleman  that  Venus,  th'  black- 
smith's wife,  was  dead,  an'  then  th'  clap  of  thunder  kem, 
an'  th'  lightnin'  an'  he  fell.  I  saw  it  sthrike  him.  God 
rest  his  soul;  but  he  was  th'  generous  man  an'  good  to 
everybody.  God  rest  him,  I  say !  Amen !" 


296  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 


AUNT  JULEY'S  WARNING. 

"Girls,  I'm  going  to  leave  ye." 

"Oh,  no,  dear  aunt,  not  so  soon." 

"I  mean  I'm  going  to  die." 

"To  die?    Surely,  you  don't  mean  that?" 

"I  do  mean  that.  I  have  good  reason  to  know  that 
my  time  has  come." 

"Surely,  aunt,  you  are  not  superstitious?" 

"I  never  was  superstitious,"  said  Aunt  Juley,  hotly; 
"but  when  a  woman  gets  three  warnings,  it  is  not  too 
soon  to  get  ready.  Knowing  what  I  know,  I  thought  I 
would  prefer  to  die  among  my  own,  and  so  I  came " 

"Indeed,  you're  always  welcome,  aunt,"  ejaculated 
Kitty. 

"To  die!"  resumed  the  aunt. 

"  No,  no ;  not  to  die,  aunt,  but  to  live.  You  are  not  so 
very  old,  aunt,  and  as  healthy  as  a " 

"No  matter  how  healthy " 

"And  your  hair  is  as  black  as  the  proverbial  raven's 
wing.  You  don't  look  in  the  least  like  death." 

Aunt  Juley  snatched  a  surreptitious  glance  at  an  oppo- 
site mirror  and  could  not  deny  that  the  image  reflected 
therein  was  just  as  her  nieces  said.  Even  a  dying  woman 
is  open  to  flattery,  and  she  smiled  and  looked  pleased, 
but  the  smile  was  soon  replaced  by  a  frown. 

"It's  no  use  joking  with  death,"  she  said,  solemnly. 


AUNT  JULEY'S  WARNING  297 

"  Death  is  coming  and  I  am  resigned.  My  coffin  is  ready. 
I  have  brought  it  with  me." 

"  Brought  your  coffin  with  you  ?" 

"Yes,  I  have  taken  the  liberty,  as  I  intend  to  die  among 
my  friends.  It  can  be  put  into  my  room,  and  will  bother 
nobody." 

"  But  is  it  not  time  enough  to  order  your  coffin  when  it 
is  needed?"  Mary  was  speaking  now.  She  was  an  ac- 
knowledged belle,  and  did  not  propose  to  spoil  her  win- 
ter's fun  by  allowing  this  old-fashioned  auntie  to  run  the 
house.  It  was  all  very  nice  to  spend  a  month  or  so  in 
the  summer  at  her  comfortable  farm  in  the  picturesque 
region  of  Connemara,  but  to  have  to  entertain  her  in  re- 
turn and  her  ghastly  ideas  of  warnings  and  coffins  was 
not  to  be  thought  of. 

Kitty  was  different.  She  loved  the  memory  of  her 
dead  father,  and  his  kind-hearted  but  odd  sister  was  re- 
vered for  his  sake.  The  girls  were  orphans,  deprived  of 
their  parents  at  a  very  early  age,  and  were  living  with 
their  mother's  brother,  an  old  bachelor,  who  had  educated 
them  and  who  seemed  to  be  devoted  to  his  nieces  for  their 
mother's  sake ;  but  he  was  not  in  any  way  related  to  Aunt 
Juley.  He  was  a  barrister  of  high  standing  and  very 
much  in  demand,  consequently  his  time  was  spent  away 
from  home.  He  had  often  wished  that  the  young  ladies' 
aunt  would  come  and  chaperon  the  motherless  girls,  but 
Aunt  Juley  could  not  be  persuaded  to  reside  in  Dublin, 
though  she  had  spent  many  seasons  there  as  a  girl. 

"I  had  the  coffin  made  by  Tim  Farley,"  said  Aunt 
Juley,  gazing  meditatively  into  the  fire.  "He  is  the  best 
carpenter  in  all  Ireland,  and  has  every  reason  to  be  at- 
tached to  the  family.  It  is  made  of  the  oldest  oak  on  the 


298  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

estate,  thoroughly  seasoned  and  waterproof,  and  as 
strong  as  iron.  My  name  is  engraved  on  it  in " 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  auntie,  don't  say  any  more  about 
it,"  pleaded  Mary. 

"My  will  is  made,"  continued  the  lady,  "and  I  hope  I 
have  done  justice  to  all.  I  have  left  my  two  old  faithful 
servants  one  hundred  pounds  apiece  and  a  cottage  rent- 
free  for  life,  a  hundred  each  to  the  orphan  and  insane 
asylums,  one  hundred  to  Father  Tom  for  the  poor,  and 
the  rest  to  you,  my  dear  girls." 

"There  was  no  need  of  remembering  us,  my  dear  aunt," 
said  Kitty.  "We  have  enough." 

The  door  was  opened  noiselessly  and  Pat,  the  old  ser- 
vant, stood  in  the  room.  His  face  was  as  pale  as  death 
and  he  gasped  three  or  four  times  before  speaking. 

"There  is  a  coffin  down  at  the  door,"  he  said,  address- 
ing himself  to  Mary.  "The  man  says  it  belongs  here,  and 
refuses  to  go  away  widout  seein'  the  ladies." 

"It's  my  coffin,"  said  Aunt  Juley,  calmly.  "Tell  the 
man  to  bring  it  in  and  put  it  in  my  room.  I  shall  soon 
have  need  of  it." 

"Ladies,"  said  Pat,  with  the  familiarity  of  an  old  re- 
tainer, "what's  this  I  hear?  Is  it  to  bring  a  coffin  in  the 
house  widout  a  corpse  to  put  into  it  ?  Glory  be  to  God ! 
It's  a  fair  temptin'  of  Providence !" 

"It's  my  aunt's  baggage  and  it  must  be  brought  in," 
said  Kitty,  determinedly.  "The  shape  and  form  of  the — 
hem — trunk  makes  no  difference.  It  is  a  shame  for  people 
to  be  so  superstitious." 

"It's  a  coffin,  as  plain  as  day,"  said  the  man,  under  his 
breath,  "and  sure  to  bring  throuble  on  the  house." 

The  gruesome-looking  baggage  was  brought  in  and  de- 


AUNT  JULEY'S  WARNING  299 

posited  in  the  best  chamber,  a  couple  of  female  servants 
cowering  and  peeping  from  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  and 
a  quartet  of  inquisitive  neighbors  peering  from  behind 
lace  curtains. 

"Only  for  the  regard  I  have  for  the  family,"  said 
Pat  to  Miss  Mary,  "I'd  lave  before  mornin'." 

Miss  Mary  was  used  to  hearing  that  remark;  but  for 
the  first  time  she  failed  to  smile  at  the  time-worn  saying, 
knowing  that  wild  horses  could  not  draw  him  away. 
There  was  trouble  certainly  brewing,  but  not  of  the 
kind  prophesied  by  old  Pat.  With  this  gloomy  article  in 
the  house,  the  merry-making  program  laid  down  for 
the  winter  was  likely  to  end  disastrously.  For  instance, 
a  couple  of  lively  young  officers  were  to  dine  with  them 
this  very  evening.  Suppose  the  old  lady  should  feel 
called  upon  to  give  the  party  the  history  of  her  warnings, 
and  spoil  the  whole  evening?  Something  must  be  done 
to  prevent  such  a  catastrophe. 

Kitty  was  wise  and  tactful.  She  was  also  kind  and 
thoughtful,  and  realized  that  her  aunt  was  much  in  need 
of  sympathy.  The  lonely  life  she  was  living  in  the 
country  was  telling  on  her  in  more  ways  than  one.  Being 
the  only  unmarried  member  of  her  family,  she  was  given 
the  old  homestead  and  a  tidy  yearly  income  from  her 
mother.  Juley  had  grown  hypochondriacal  of  late,  and 
her  solitary  life  had  helped  the  disease  along. 

"Isn't  it  possible  to  cheer  her  up  and  drive  those  ideas 
out  of  her  head  ?"  thought  Kitty. 

Aunt  Juley  was  a  kind  creature,  but  a  little  old- 
fashioned.  Kitty  was  going  to  prove  that  an  old  aunt 
from  the  country  was  as  much  to  be  respected  as  a 
fashionable  one  from  the  city,  and  she  began  at  once. 


300  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

She  insisted  on  dressing  her  abundant  hair  in  the  newest 
style,  and  dressing  her  up  in  her  best  dress  with  addi- 
tions, and  finishing  bows  and  kindly  suggestions  from 
herself. 

"Even  if  you  are  going  to  die  so  soon,  aunt,  you  may 
as  well  go  well  dressed  to  heaven.  It  will  be  showing 
respect  to  those  gone  before.  Let  me  put  this  rose  on 
your  breast.  See  how  becoming  it  is !" 

Aunt  Juley  looked  in  the  glass,  at  first  reluctantly, 
and  afterward  with  pleasure.  Then  she  recollected  and 
sighed  lugubriously,  "God  forgive  ye,  Kitty.  Ye're 
makin'  me  forget  me  sowl." 

Aunt  Juley  always  fell  into  a  rich  brogue  when  she 
became  excited,  and  the  sight  of  her  improved  image  in 
the  glass  reminded  her  of  her  youth  in  that  very  charm- 
ing city,  and  how  she  had  looked  in  the  eyes  of  somebody, 
young  and  charming  like  herself,  who  had  gone  long 
before  her. 

"It  isn't  fair  to  us  girls  to  have  you  look  so  well, 
Aunt  Juley.  There  will  be  no  eyes  for  your  nieces  to- 
night." 

"I'd  rather  go  to  my  room  and  say  my  prayers,"  said 
Aunt  Juley,  with  a  lingering  look  in  the  glass.  "It's  just 
foolish  of  me  to  waste  the  few  days  remaining  to  me  in  a 
round  of  pleasure." 

"Nonsense,  aunt,  you  will  be  long  enough  in  the  next 
world.  Let  our  last  recollections  of  you  be  pleasant  ones. 
You  look  charming  to-night.  Your  complexion  is  as 
fresh  as  that  of  a  young  girl." 

Aunt  Juley  shook  her  head.  "At  forty-five,"  she  said, 
"one  is  supposed  to  be  beyond  flattery.  However,  I  will 
stay  if  it  pleases  you  girls ;  though  I'm  sure  I'm  only  in 
the  way  in  a  crowd  of  young  people,  redcoats  and  such." 


AUNT  JULEY'S  WARNING  301 

"Not  at  all,  aunt;  the  gentlemen  who  are  coming  are 
as  delightfully  good-natured  as  any  you  ever  met  in  Con- 
nemara.  By  the  way,  aunt,  were  you  not  fond  of  a  'red- 
coat' once,  yourself?" 

Aunt  Juley's  reply  was  a  burst  of  tears.  The  girls 
were  shocked  and  distressed,  and  fell  to  wondering  what 
they  had  said  to  cause  such  trouble.  It  was  a  "redcoat," 
of  course,  and  then  they  delved  into  their  minds  for  the 
details  of  the  little  romance  of  so  many  years  ago,  but 
which  must  have  meant  a  great  deal  to  Aunt  Juley.  The 
details  they  were  in  possession  of  were  very  vague  in- 
deed; and  they  waited  patiently  and  quietly  for  a  cessation 
of  the  tempest. 

There  was  no  cessation.  Aunt  Juley  cried  as  if  her 
heart  would  break.  The  font  of  tears,  so  long  dried  up, 
was  gushing  forth  at  a  great  rate  and  refused  to  be 
stopped ;  besides,  she  made  no  apology,  but  sobbed  away 
at  every  attempt  at  consolation,  in  such  a  heart-broken 
manner  that  the  girls  were  fain  to  join  in  for  very  sym- 
pathy. 

They  locked  the  door  of  the  little  breakfast-room  in 
which  they  were  sitting,  but  not  before  Pat,  in  his  morn- 
ing rounds,  had  seen  and  heard  more  than  was  intended 
for  his  ears.  The  old  man  was  discretion  itself,  and 
would  bear  to  be  tortured  before  anything  that  he  con- 
sidered derogatory  to  his  master's  family  would  pass  his 
lips,  even  to  his  fellow-servants.  "What's  comin'  over 
the  house  at  all,  at  all?"  he  soliloquized.  "Yesterday 
they  brought  a  coffin  here  widout  a  corpse  to  put  in  it, 
and  to-day  they  are  holdin'  a  wake.  T  never  heard  the 
likes  of  it.  It's  enough  to  bring  throuble  on  the  house, 
eyah,  eyah !" 


302  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself,"  said  the  aunt  at 
length;  "but  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  feel  better  for  relieving 
my  mind.  There  has  been  a  load  on  my  heart,  pressing 
it  down  for  years." 

"And  we  were  the  means  of  removing  it?  Oh,  aunt, 
if  you  only  would  tell  us  something — something  that 
happened  long  ago — it  might  help  you  to  feel  better,  but 
if  you  don't  wish  to,  never  mind." 

"But  I  do  wish  it,  girls.  I  haven't  long  to  live,  and 
my  story  might  do  somebody  good.  I  saw  him  the  other 
night." 

"You  saw  him,  aunt?    Why,  I  thought  he  was  dead." 

"  So  he  is,  poor  fellow ;  dead  on  the  field  of  battle." 

"And  you  saw  him?" 

"Beckoning  to  me.  I  saw  him  as  plain  as  I  see  you 
now." 

"And  that's  why  you  bought  the  coffin,  aunt?" 

"That's  why  I  bought  the  coffin.  He  appeared  to  me 
three  times,  beckoning,  always  beckoning." 

"But  it  was  only  a  dream,  aunt,  and  might  mean 
nothing." 

"I  tell  you,  girls,  when  a  man  and  woman  love  one 
another  as  we  loved,  and  are  parted  by  the  selfishness  of 
the  woman " 

"You  were  never  selfish,  auntie.  Your  life  has  proved 
that." 

"I  was  selfish  to  him — selfish  and  proud.  I  had  more 
money  than  he  had  and  my  family  objected.  He  joined 
the  army — wore  the  red  coat,  which  I  regarded  as  the  in- 
signia of  dishonor — and  after  remaining  some  time  in  a 
barrack  near  Dublin,  sailed  away  for  India.  I  came  up  to 
Dublin  ostensibly  on  a  visit  to  relatives,  but  in  reality  to 


AUNT  JULEY'S  WARNING  303 

see  him.  I  met  him  by  stealth,  but  hadn't  the  courage  to 
bid  him  stay,  or  follow  him,  and  all  because  he  was  poor. 
What  can  the  poor  fellows  do  in  Ireland  but  join  the 
army?  The  Queen  wanted  soldiers,  and  every  other 
chance  to  make  a  living  was  kept  out  of  the  way. 

"You  can't  know,  girls,  how  I  suffered!  My  friends 
rejoiced  at  what  they  considered  the  termination  of  my 
infatuation,  but  it  had  only  just  begun.  If  I  loved  him 
before  he  left,  I  loved  him  afterward  ten  times  more. 
I  refused  every  other  offer.  His  death  on  the  field  of 
battle  was  reported,  and  I  hid  myself  on  my  Connemara 
estate  and " 

"And  dreamed  foolish  dreams,"  interpolated  Mary. 
"I'm  sorry  for  you  and  your  lover,  Aunt  Juley,  but  I 
don't  think  you  are  going  to  die." 

"  'On  the  eleventh  of  December  I  will  come  for  you,' 
the  vision  said,  and  he  never  told  a  lie.  Girls,  I'm  not 
sorry  to  go  to  see  him,  no  matter  where  it  is.  I  am  tired 
and  lonely  and  remorseful.  If  I  could  live  my  life  over 
again,  things  would  be  very  different  with  your  aunt." 

"You'd  marry  your  poor  soldier?" 

"Ay,  that  I  would,  and  be  content  with  bread  and 
water." 

"The  eleventh  is  very  near,"  said  her  niece,  shudder- 
ing, "and  we  have  a  party  for  that  night." 

"If  I  am  in  the  way,  I  can  go,"  said  her  aunt.  "I  must 
die  somewhere." 

"No,  no,  aunt,  you  must  not  go,"  interrupted  Kitty. 
"Whether  you  live  or  die,  you  must  stay  here,  but  I 
sincerely  hope  you  will  live." 

"He'll  come  for  me  on  the  eleventh,"  said  the  aunt, 
shaking  her  head. 
20 


304  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Well,  until  the  eleventh,  we  must  endeavor  to  enjoy 
ourselves,"  said  Kitty.  "The  Forty-seventh  Regiment  is 
to  embark  for  India  the  next  day,  and  a  few  of  the  of- 
ficers will  dine  here.  We  intend  that  they  shall  carry 
with  them  warm  recollections  of  their  last  night  in  Ire- 
land. After  supper  we  will  have  an  old-fashioned  dance 
and  wind  up  with  the  national  reel  and  jig." 

"Who  will  dance  them?"  said  Mary.  "They  are  out 
of  style  now,  and  the  only  dances  we  learned  in  school 
were  the  waltz  and  polka." 

"Waltz  and  polka,  indeed!"  interrupted  Aunt  Juley, 
excitedly.  "Pretty  dances  for  young  girls — whirling 
around  in  the  arms  of  young  men  who  are  perfect 
strangers  to  them !"  The  reminiscent  sigh  that  accom- 
panied this  outburst  was  almost  a  groan. 

"Just  my  idea!"  said  Kitty,  with  equal  excitement. 
"Our  intentions  are  all  right,  if  we  only  knew  how  to 
follow  them.  Will  you  show  us?  You  were  considered 
one  of  the  best  dancers  in  the  county  twenty  years  ago." 

"And  cannot  have  quite  forgotten  the  art,"  added 
Mary,  insinuatingly. 

"I  move  that  we  adjourn  to  the  drawing-room  and 
that  Mary  play  us  a  reel  in  her  own  masterly  style,  while 
auntie  and  I  'welt  the  flure.'  It  won't  take  me  long  to 
learn,"  said  Kitty. 

"It  takes  four  to  dance  a  reel,"  replied  the  aunt,  "or 
three  at  a  pinch." 

"We  can  press  one  of  the  chairs  into  service,"  said 
Kitty. 

"A  chair  is  a  poor  substitute  for  a  man,"  said  Aunt 
Juley. 

"It's  the  best  we  can  do  at  present,"  rejoined  Kitty. 


AUNT  JULEY'S  WARNING  305 

Mary  struck  up  a  merry  dance  without  more  ado.  At 
the  sound  of  the  familiar  measure,  Aunt  Juley's  toes 
began  to  twitch;  as  it  progressed,  the  whole  foot  par- 
ticipated, and  before  the  tune  had  gone  into  the  refrain 
she  was  on  the  floor,  spinning  and  twirling  and  beating 
time  with  every  muscle  in  her  body. 

The  trio  were  so  engaged  in  the  matter  before  them 
that  they  failed  to  hear  the  approaching  footsteps  of 
callers.  Pat,  reinforced  by  two  officers,  was  standing  in 
the  doorway,  an  amazed  spectator  of  the  thrilling  spec- 
tacle. "Turn  to  the  left,  now  turn  to  the  right.  Pick  up 
your  skirts,  and  let  us  see  your  feet,"  cried  Aunt  Juley. 
"Now  put  some  life  into  yourself." 

Kitty  was  obeying  to  the  best  of  her  power.  With 
dainty  skirt  raised,  exposing  to  view  a  pair  of  the  prettiest 
little  feet  in  the  world,  she  was  following  her  aunt's 
movements  implicitly,  when  she  heard:  "Captain  Fol- 
linsbee  and  Captain  Ward,"  announced  in  Pat's  richest 
brogue.  Kitty  dropped  her  skirt,  the  music  ceased,  and 
dead  silence  prevailed  for  a  second. 

"We  were  practicing  for  the  eleventh,"  said  Kitty, 
with  a  blush,  as  she  shook  hands  with  her  guests.  "My 
aunt  is  giving  us  a  lesson  in  the  old-fashioned  dances." 

With  the  composure  that  comes  from  good-breeding, 
she  made  no  further  apology,  but  proceeded  to  introduce 
her  relative  to  the  young  men. 

"Miss  Jennings  of  Carricknamacken,  Connemara." 

"Where  you  spent  last  August?"  asked  Captain  Fol- 
linsbee,  acknowledging  the  introduction. 

"There's  some  game  there,  and  you're  heartily  wel- 
come to  come,  too,"  said  Aunt  Juley,  with  one  of  her 
deepest  curtsies ;  and  then,  remembering  her  near  demise, 
added :  "If  I'm  not  there,  Kitty  will  do  the  honors." 


306       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"You  will  be  there,  aunt,"  said  Kitty. 

"It's  too  bad  to  stop  your  rehearsal,"  said  Captain 
Ward. 

"We  were  short  of  partners,  and  dancing  to  chairs 
isn't  very  progressive,"  answered  Kitty,  while  her  aunt 
was  watching  a  chance  to  escape  to  her  room. 

"How  would  we  do?"  said  Captain  Ward,  who,  being 
an  Irishman,  soon  recovered  his  composure.  "Follinsbee 
is  an  expert  at  that  kind  of  thing." 

"Sorry  to  have  to  contradict  you,"  said  the  tall  English- 
man, bashfully.  "I  don't  know  anything  about  dancing." 

"That's  not  necessary,"  interrupted  Ward.  "The 
young  ladies  are  only  practicing." 

"Certainly,"  said  Kitty,  anxious  to  put  them  at  their 
ease.  "We  have  only  to  watch  auntie  and  do  as  she 
does." 

In  a  moment  the  two  gentlemen  were  on  the  floor,  and 
Mary  was  again  at  the  piano. 

"Shut  the  door,"  begged  the  latter,  "and  tell  Pat  that 
we  are  not  at  home  to  callers,  or  this  will  go  all  over 
Dublin." 

"Indeed,"  came  from  Aunt  Juley,  scornfully,  "the  reel 
was  danced  by  the  gentry  of  Ireland  when  half  the  present 
residents  of  Dublin  were  only  serving  behind  the 
counter." 

The  dance  proceeded  with  much  merriment,  and  much 
explanation,  for  their  swords  would  persist  in  tripping 
up  the  young  men  and  they  would  forget  when  to  turn. 

Aunt  Juley  had  evidently  forgotten  the  near  approach 
of  death,  and  was  laughing  heartily  at  the  mistakes  of  the 
Englishman,  when  the  door  was  opened  and  the  master 
of  the  house,  accompanied  by  a  stranger,  stood  in  their 


AUNT  JULEY'S  WARNING  307 

midst.  The  stranger  was  a  man  of  middle  age  and 
commanding  presence,  who  regarded  the  scene  with  an 
amused  smile. 

"Oh,  uncle,"  cried  Kitty,  "auntie  has  been  giving  us 
a  dancing  lesson.  We  are  to  have  the  real  old  dances  at 
our  party  on  the  eleventh." 

"So  I  perceive,"  said  her  uncle,  indulgently;  "and  I 
have  brought  you  a  visitor,  one  who  has  not  seen  Ireland 
for  twenty  years.  Give  him  a  warm  welcome  and  the 
best  bed  in  the  house." 

"Just  like  uncle,"  whispered  Mary,  "to  fill  the  house 
with  company  just  when  we  are  going  to  be  so  busy." 

"Just  like  uncle,"  said  Kitty,  "so  kind  and  thoughtful 
to  the  stranger;  but  where 's  Aunt  Juley?"  But  Aunt 
Juley  had  escaped  in  the  confusion. 

It  was  a  trying  time  for  Kitty,  who  had  superintended 
the  management  since  the  death  of  her  mother,  to  have 
two  such  responsibilities  on  her  hands  on  the  eve  of  their 
party.  With  a  wisdom  beyond  her  years,  she  determined 
to  devote  herself  to  her  aunt,  and  not  to  allow  Her  out 
of  her  presence  till  after  the  fated  day  had  passed  and 
her  cure  was  complete. 

"Stay  with  us,  aunt — with  me,  I  mean — till  after  the 
party.  We  are  going  to  have  a  houseful  of  company. 
I  have  given  the  gentleman  who  came  to-night  your  room. 
I  hope  you  won't  be  offended." 

"Not  at  all,  my  dear  girl,"  said  Aunt  Juley,  who  had 
never  looked  at  the  stranger  and  felt  no  curiosity  about 
his  name;  "I  don't  want  to  be  in  your  way  at  all.  In 
fact,  I'd  rather  sleep  with  you  than  anybody.  God  has 
given  you  wisdom,  and  when  my  time  comes,  you  won't 
be  afraid." 


308       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

For  the  next  few  days  the  world  saw  very  little  of 
Aunt  Juley.  The  part  she  took  in  the  impromptu  dance 
weighed  heavy  on  her  conscience,  and  she  determined  to 
be  very  circumspect  in  her  deportment  for  the  future. 
She  spent  the  following  days  in  devotional  exercises,  and 
except  a  few  visits  to  the  neighboring  church,  she  never 
left  her  room,  her  meals  being  sent  up-stairs. 

Kitty  was  too  busy  with  caterers  and  decorators  to  do 
more  than  see  that  her  aunt  was  comfortable,  and  her 
uncle  was  taken  up  with  his  guest,  who  still  remained 
at  the  house,  and  with  whom  he  was  always  looking 
over  papers. 

The  morning  of  the  eleventh  dawned  at  last,  and  Aunt 
Juley  was  up  betimes.  She  dressed  very  early,  and  awoke 
Kitty  by  her  restless  movements  about  the  room. 

"Oh!  Kitty  darling,"  she  whispered,  "I  heard  his 
voice  last  night.  He  is  in  the  house !" 

"Oh,  aunt,"  said  Kitty,  melting  into  tears,  "I'm  afraid 
you  will  lose  your  mind.  You  are  giving  way  to  your 
imagination,  and  I  am  afraid  of  the  end !" 

"I  am  perfectly  sane,  my  dear  girl,  don't  be  afraid. 
I  have  not  heard  his  voice  for  twenty  years,  yet  the  sound 
of  it  has  never  left  my  heart.  I  could  recognize  it  any- 
where. Listen,  there  it  is !  You  may  not  hear  it,  because 
the  great  Lord  has  meant  it  for  my  ear;  but  I  can  hear 
it  as  plain  as  I  hear  you  .when  you  speak,"  said  Aunt 
Juley,  triumphantly. 

The  first  gray  mists  of  the  morning  were  beginning  to 
break  away  from  the  beautiful  Wicklow  mountains  as 
Kitty  rose,  trembling,  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 
Everything  was  still  as  death  in  the  hour  that  immediately 
precedes  day,  and  Kitty  may  be  pardoned  for  feeling  a 


AUNT  JULEY'S  WARNING  309 

creepy  sensation  that  left  her  for  a  moment  powerless 
to  act.  She  imagined  she  had  heard  someone  moving 
stealthily  in  the  hall,  and  the  hum  of  subdued  talking. 
Her  first  thought  was  of  burglars,  and  she  leaned  far 
out  of  the  window  for  the  sight  of  a  bluecoat.  Alas! 
there  was  none.  Even  the  usual  belated  straggler  re- 
turning from  a  prolonged  carousal  was  wanting.  To 
crown  all,  Aunt  Juley  had  disappeared. 

Her  aunt  was  there  when  Kitty  went  to  the  window, 
and  must  have  opened  the  door  very  quietly,  if  she  went 
that  way.  Kitty  called  her  but  received  no  reply.  Her 
first  thought  was  to  cry  for  help;  her  next  was  to  avoid 
comment  as  much  as  possible.  She  began  to  see  now 
that  she  was  dealing  with  a  woman,  who,  if  not  actually 
mad,  was  on  the  very  verge  of  insanity. 

She  was  sorry  now  that  she  had  not  told  everything 
to  her  uncle,  who  would  have  known  how  to  act  in  the 
matter ;  but  she  wanted  to  spare  her  aunt,  whose  delusion 
she  expected  to  overcome  by  the  aid  of  pleasant  sur- 
roundings. Then,  too,  her  uncle  was  so  busy  that  she 
was  loth  to  bother  him  with  unnecessary  affairs.  Then 
it  flashed  across  her  mind  that  her  aunt's  strange  baggage 
had  been  stowed  away  somewhere  and  utterly  forgotten. 
It  was  put — heavens!  in  the  chamber  occupied  by  the 
gentleman  from  India — the  man  who  had  been  absent 
from  Ireland  twenty  years. 

Kitty  ventured  to  open  the  door  of  her  room  and  to 
peep  over  the  banisters.  There  was  a  sound  of  voices 
in  the  hall  below,  and  two  forms  passed  through  the 
ray  of  light  coming  from  the  open  door  of  the  library. 
It  was  her  uncle  and  the  stranger.  Her  uncle  was  talking 
earnestly,  and  presently  old  Pat  appeared  as  if  in  answer 


310       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

to  a  hasty  summons.  Again  there  was  the  sound  of  loud 
conversation  and  slamming  of  doors. 

Her  uncle  was  a  man  usually  of  very  few  words,  but 
when  he  had  occasion  to  show  displeasure,  his  manner  of 
expression  was  unmistakably  forcible.  He  was  angry 
now,  and  Kitty  could  distinguish  Pat's  voice  raised  in 
explanation,  as  well  as  the  stranger's  in  seeming  ex- 
postulation. And  this  was  the  morning  of  their  party, 
that  they  had  looked  forward  to  with  so  much  pleasure ! 

What  was  it  all  about?  Some  instinct  told  her  that 
the  whole  disturbance  was  connected  with  her  aunt's 
visit.  What  had  her  uncle  found  out?  Suppose  it  was 
the  coffin!  Oh,  horror! 

Her  suspicions  were  soon  justified.  Her  uncle  caught 
sight  of  her  as  she  leaned  over  the  banisters,  and  called 
to  her  to  come  down,  if  possible ;  then  hearing  frightened 
whispers  on  the  floor  above,  she  discovered  the  female 
servants,  in  various  stages  of  undress,  huddled  together 
on  top  of  the  stairs,  in  anticipation  of  something  awful. 
She  motioned  them  back  to  their  rooms,  but  they  seemed 
to  be  afraid  to  move.  The  cook,  who  was  masquerading 
in  a  petticoat  worn  like  a  cloak,  with  the  band  around  her 
neck,  was  shaking  as  with  the  ague.  Her  teeth  were 
clattering  in  her  head,  as  she  whispered  hoarsely : 

"Miss  Kitty,  dear,  tell  me,  is  your  Aunt  Juley  dead? 
But  what's  the  use  of  axin',  fer  sure  I  know  it  be  me 
dhrame.  She's  dead.  Whenever  I  dhrame  of  cardin' 
flax,  it's  ayther  a  weddin'  or  a  funeral,  and  sure  the 
funeral  is  here,  for  the  coffin " 

"Why  should  it  be  a  coffin,  Molly?  There  are  plenty 
of  queer  shaped  trunks.  Go  back  to  bed,  all  of  you." 

Hastily  throwing  a  dressing-gown  over  her  robe  de 


AUNT  JULEY'S  WARNING  311 

nuit,  she  joined  her  uncle  in  the  library.  Pat,  with  the 
skill  of  a  diplomat,  was  evading  the  questions  propounded 
to  him  by  his  master,  fearful  lest  he  should  get  his  "darlin' 
Miss  Kitty"  into  trouble,  brought  on  by  that  "ould  har- 
ridan from  Connemara." 

The  gentleman  from  India  was  standing  by  the  mantel 
as  if  he  had  not  retired  at  all.  His  face  was  very  pale, 
and  wore  a  pained  and  puzzled  look. 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  the  contents  of  the  dressing- 
room  of  the  first  floor  bedroom,  Kitty?"  her  uncle  cried. 
"This  fool  here,"  pointing  to  Pat,  "can  not  or  will  not 
give  me  any  information  on  the  matter." 

"Yes,  uncle,  that's  something  that  Aunt  Juley  brought 
here  a  few  weeks  ago.  I  put  it  there,  and  forgot  all 
about  it,  though  I  believe  I  covered  it  up." 

"And  I  offered  a  friend  the  hospitality  of  my  house, 
while  here  on  business,  and  put  him  in  companionship 
with  that  gruesome-looking  article.  He  will  return  to 
India  with  a  very  poor  impression  of  the  change  of  man- 
ners in  his  native  country." 

The  gentleman  from  India  was  looking  at  her  fixedly, 
his  gray  hair  standing  nearly  straight  from  his  head. 

"What  is  your  aunt's  name?"  he  said. 

"Miss  Jennings  of  Carricknamacken,  Connemara," 
she  replied. 

"I  knew  a  Miss  Juley  Jennings  of  Carricknamacken, 
Connemara,  years  ago,"  he  said,  "but  connected  you 
with  your  uncle's  name.  I  forgot  that  he  told  me  that 
you  were  his  sister's  children,  and  I  therefore  knew 
nothing  of  the  relationship." 

"Aunt  Juley  is  my  father's  sister,"  began  Kitty;  but 
the  man  from  India  took  no  heed  of  interruption  and 


312  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

still  went  on  as  in  a  dream.  Pat  retired  without  com- 
mitting himself. 

"Your  aunt  and  I  were  friends  as  far  as  a  boy  of 
slender  means  and  a  girl  of  comparative  wealth  could 
be.  I  joined  the  army  and,  like  many  men  of  desperate 
fortunes,  dared  death  in  many  forms  because  I  had  noth- 
ing much  to  live  for.  I  was  promoted,  step  by  step, 
until  I  reached  the  rank  of  major.  As  I  never  entered 
the  British  army  for  the  love  of  fighting  England's  bat- 
tles, I  retired,  to  pursue  wealth  rather  than  fame. 

"I  was  successful,  and  returning  to  Ireland  on  business 
connected  with  my  new  position,  not  forgetful  of  former 
friends,  I  inquired  concerning  Miss  Jennings,  and  heard 
she  was  dead.  I  intended  to  visit  her  grave,  and  then 
return  to  my  adopted  country,  India,  as  this  country  had 
no  longer  any  charm  for  me.  Where  is  her  grave  ? 

"On  opening  the  door  of  my  dressing-room,  I  came 
upon  a  coffin  with  her  name  carved  on  it.  I  thought  it 
was  a  delusion,  but  was  it?  What  does  it  mean?  I  in- 
tended leaving  the  house  without  saying  anything  about 
it,  but  your  uncle  found  me  here  and  insisted  on  know- 
ing why. 

"  I  do  not  mind  telling  you  now,  since  I  am  old  enough 
to  have  done  with  pride,  that  your  aunt  was  very  dear 
to  me.  Will  you  not  tell  me  something  of  her  last  mo- 
ments? Did  she  ever  speak  of  me?  If  that  is  her  coffin 
in  the  dressing-room,  why  was  she  disinterred  and  the 
coffin  brought  here?" 

How  many  more  questions  he  would  have  asked  will 
never  be  known,  for  Kitty  interrupted  him  and  led  the 
way  to  the  room  again. 

"I  ought  to  apologize   for  giving  such  trouble,"  he 


AUNT  JULEY'S  WARNING  313 

said.  "  The — the  article  in  question  was  not  meant  for  my 
eyes,  I  am  sure,  for  I  used  the  room  three  or  four  days 
before  I  noticed  it.  The  cover  must  have  fallen  off " 

He  stopped  and  swallowed  hard.  Kitty's  thoughts 
were  running  riot.  She  saw  it  all.  The  heavy  tablecloth 
with  which  she  had  draped  the  unwelcome  coffin  had 
slipped  off,  or  maybe  the  housemaid  had  thrown  it  off  to 
frighten  a  fellow-servant.  She  remembered  hearing  a 
stifled  scream  from  above  that  very  afternoon  and  catch- 
ing sight  of  two  pairs  of  heels  making  rapid  headway 
down  the  back  stairs  immediately  afterward.  She  had 
been  so  busy  that  she  had  forgotten  to  connect  the  coffin 
with  the  incident  then.  Now 

"I  saw  the  name,"  the  gentleman  continued,  huskily, 
"and  it  brought  a  host  of  recollections.  There  is  a  vein 
of  superstition  in  everybody,  I  think,  for  I  felt  that  that 
coffin  was  sent  as  a  warning  to  me.  It  is  real,  for  I 
touched  it.  It  is  empty,  for  I  raised  the  cover.  How  did 
it  get  there  ?  Where  is  the  form  for  whom  it  was  made  ? 
Where  have  they  laid  her  ?" 

"It  was  made  for  my  aunt,  Miss  Juley  Jennings " 

"Of  Carricknamacken ?" 

"Yes,  of  Carricknamacken,  Connemara." 

"Then  she  died  unmarried,"  resumed  the  stranger, 
with  a  kind  of  sad  triumph.  "As  an  excuse  for  my  un- 
warranted behavior,  I  must  acknowledge  that  in  my 
youth  I  loved  your  aunt  very  much.  I  love  her  memory 
yet.  I  was  poor  and  I  went  away.  It  was  a  consolation, 
though  a  selfish  one,  to  think  that  perhaps  she  cherished 
a  remembrance  of  the  poor  soldier-boy  who  shouldered 
his  knapsack  in  search  of  fortune.  My  one  desire  in 
returning  was  to  see  her  again,  but  it  was  not  permitted. 


314       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

How  lovely  she  was !  How  lovely  she  was !  How  grace- 
ful and  kind  and  considerate !  In  all  my  travels  I  have 
seen  none  like  her.  You  resemble  her  very  much ;  I  might 
have  guessed  that  there  was  some  relationship." 

Kitty  was  listening,  spellbound.  Twice  she  essayed 
to  speak,  but  seemed  unable  to  stop  the  thread  of  this 
interesting  story.  Her  uncle  was  looking  at  her  in  a 
puzzled  way.  Why  didn't  she  speak  and  tell  the  romantic 
stranger  the  unromantic  story  of  her  aunt's  coffin-building 
at  the  hands  of  Tim  Farley,  "the  best  carpenter  in  all 
Ireland,"  and  her  present  troublesome  visit,  which  had 
cast  a  gloom  over  the  whole  house  ? 

"I  heard  of  her  death  the  other  day  from  an  old  Conne- 
mara  friend.  He  said  she  died  away  from  her  old  home, 
and  she  must  be  buried  in  Dublin — where  I  used  to  see 
her.  My  only  pleasure  now  is  to  see  her  grave.  This 
country  has  no  -other  charm  for  me.  I  am  old  enough 
to  be  candid.  I  will  afterward  return  to  the  country  of 
my  exile.  Will  someone  tell  me  where  she  is  buried  ?" 

Kitty  was  awake  now.  The  spell  was  broken,  but  the 
words  she  intended  to  utter  were  frozen  on  her  lips  by 
an  unexpected  apparition.  It  was  her  Aunt  Juley.  She 
stood  for  a  moment  in  their  midst  like  a  visitor  from 
another  world.  She  was  robed  in  white  as  for  a  party, 
and  her  hair  was  becomingly  coiffured.  Her  face  was 
pale  but  composed,  and  her  eyes  shone  with  the  brilliancy 
of  expectation.  Yes,  the  expectation  of  the  bridegroom — 
death.  She  wore  her  burial  robe.  Kitty  saw  and  shud- 
dered— the  burial  robe  that  even  the  humblest  in  Conne- 
mara  lay  by  and  regard  with  pride — the  burial  robe  that 
in  her  aunt's  case  was  made  of  the  finest  material  and 
was  so  extremely  becoming.  And  now  a  most  extraor- 


AUNT  JULEY'S  WARNING  315 

dinary  thing  happened.  Aunt  Juley  stood  but  a  moment 
in  their  midst.  In  another  instant  she  was  in  the  arms 
of  the  stranger. 

The  end  can  be  better  imagined  when  we  quote  the 
words  of  Pat,  the  diplomatic  man-servant,  and  the  cook 
who  "dhramed  a  dhrame." 

"Who'd  think,"  said  he,  "that  the  old  lady  came  here 
to  be  married,  and  that  that  same  old  coffin-lookin'  chest 
was  in  reality  a  weddin'  thrunk!  It  bates  all!  It  was 
a  regular  old  maid's  schame.  Oh,  I'm  onto  'em !" 

"I  knew,"  said  Molly,  the  cook,  "that  there  was  goin' 
to  be  ayther  a  weddin'  or  a  funeral,  but  I  thought  it  was 
one  of  th'  young  ladies.  Sure,  afther  that,  while  there's 
life  there's  hope." 

The  eleventh  brought  a  bigger  affair  than  was  even 
anticipated.  Aunt  Juley  and  the  major  were  married 
in  the  afternoon  very  quietly,  as  uncle  was  determined 
not  to  allow  them  to  be  parted  one  day  longer,  and  Aunt 
Juley  danced  the  reel  in  great  style  at  her  own  wedding. 
The  coffin  was  removed  to  the  lumber-room,  and  after- 
ward to  Connemara,  where  it  is  cherished  as  a  memento 
of  a  very  joyous  occasion.  For  Connemara  is  Conne- 
mara, where  death  is  looked  forward  to  as  a  necessary 
sequence  of  life,  with  the  pleasure  of  lying  down  to  rest 
among  the  eternal  hills  and  the  gorse  and  the  heather; 
and  a  good  coffin,  strong  and  well  made,  is  worth  pre- 
serving. 


316       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 


JAMIE  PATTERSON'S  HOOSE  AND  TEN 
ACRES. 

"I'd  like  a  dhrink  o'  tay,  Jamie." 

"Sorraadoot  o'  it." 

"Wid  a  little  crame  an'  sugar  in  it." 

"Indeed?" 

"An'  an  egg  from  th'  black  hen.  I  heard  her  cacklin' 
this  mornin'." 

"I  shouldn't  wondher." 

The  loom  was  again  in  motion,  and  in  its  noisy  whir 
the  remainder  of  the  sick  woman's  complaints  was 
drowned.  Jamie  Patterson  was  an  industrious  man  and 
the  best  weaver  in  the  county.  He  was  in  reality  from  the 
"black  North,"  but  had  struck  Connemara  eight  or  nine 
years  before  and  had  readily  found  work  and  a  very  pretty 
wife.  Sickness  had  robbed  Mary  of  her  good  looks.  She 
was  "always  ailin',"  her  husband  said.  Lately  she  had 
taken  to  her  bed  and  disturbed  Jamie's  plans  very  much, 
which  plans  tended  to  much  saving  and  acquiring  of 
property. 

"Jamie !" 

"Ay?" 

"Lave  off  yer  work  a  while  an'  talk  to  me.  Ye  won't 
have  me  long." 

"Blessed  be  th'  will  o'  God,"  answered  Jamie,  with 
more  sarcasm  than  piety. 


JAMIE  PATTERSON'S  HOOSE  AND  TEN  ACRES  317 

"Ye're  no  sorry  that  I'm  goin',  Jamie,"  sadly. 

"What  fer  should  I  be  sorra?  Ye'll  be  betther  off, 
woman." 

"I  won't  last  over  th'  morrow." 

"Ye're  sayin'  that  these  five  years." 

"Yes,  but  this  is  th'  truth." 

"That's  what  ye  always  say." 

"But  I'm  dyin'  this  time,  sure." 

"Then  die,  an'  be  done  wi'  it.    I'm  sick  o'  it  a'." 

The  woman  caught  her  breath  sobbingly.  There  was 
dead  silence  for  a  moment.  Jamie  was  adjusting  his 
threads,  his  tight  lips  showing  against  the  firelight,  like 
another  thread  drawn  taut.  He  had  no  patience  with  the 
sick  woman  interrupting  his  work  at  a  time  so  important. 
The  last  guinea  was  just  on  its  way  into  the  crock  on 
the  shelf  for  the  purchase  of  the  ten  acres  he  coveted, 
with  the  comfortable  cottage  thrown  in.  Then,  and  not 
till  then,  would  Jamie  rest. 

"Jamie !" 

"Well?" 

"I'dliketoseeth'childer." 

"Ye  can't  see  them  to-nicht.  They're  doon  at  ma 
sisther's." 

"I  dread  lavin'  them  to  th'  could  worl'." 

"Th'  bairns  'ull  be  all  richt." 

"Who'll  care  fer  them  when  I'm  gone?" 

"Who's  carin'  fer  them  noo?" 

A  pause  followed,  in  which  the  busy,  flying  shuttles 
kept  up  a  conversation  of  their  own.  To  the  sick  woman's 
ears,  the  conversation  was  plain  enough:  "One  guinea 
more,  one  guinea  more,  a  house  and  ten  acres,  a  house 
and  ten  acres."  In  her  half-dozing  state,  she  could  see 


318       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

the  coveted  possession,  but  occupied  by  another  woman. 
She  could  stand  it  no  longer. 

"Jamie !" 

"Ay?"  impatiently. 

"Ye'll  be  marryin'  again?" 

"Likely." 

"'Twill  be  th'  widow  Mullen?" 

"Likely." 

"Will  she  bring  them  up  in  th'  ould  faith?  Ye  prom- 
ised me  that  when  I  marrit  ye,  Jamie." 

"Well,  that  was  when " 

"When  ye  loved  me,  Jamie.  Ye  did  love  me  once, 
Jamie ;  den't  deny  it  to  a  dyin'  woman." 

"Likely." 

"An'  now  ye  love  th'  widow  Mullen.  Ye  can't  deny  it. 
I've  noticed  th'  change  ever  since  she  came  here." 

"Likely." 

"Well,  I'm  a  poor,  sickly  crature,  an'  she's  fine  lookin' 
an'  sthrong." 

"Ay,  she's  a  braw  woman." 

"Ye've  been  talkin'  to  her,  Jamie?" 

"Ay,  I've  been  talkin'  to  her." 

"Ye  might  have  th'  dacency  to  wait  till  I  was  dead." 
There  was  a  catching  in  the  sick  woman's  breath,  and  a 
restless  movement  of  the  nearly  transparent  hands. 

"An'  let  someone  else  get  ahead  o'  me?  Siccan  a  smart 
woman  is  not  found  every  day." 

"Ye  might  have  waited " 

"Ye  were  as  guid  as  deed  three  months  agone.  Why, 
th'  women  had  th'  wather  on  to  wash  ye." 

"Well,"  said  the  woman  again,  after  a  pause,  "'tis  no 
use  findin'  faut;  ye're  from  th'  black  North,  where  it's 


JAMIE  PATTERSON'S  HOOSE  AND  TEN  ACRES  319 

impossible  to  find  a  heart.  I  can't  blame  ye.  All  I  ask  is 
that  ye'll  bring  me  a  priest.  It's  me  last  request." 

"A  papish  priest?" 

"Ay,  if  so  ye  call  him." 

"I'll  no  do  it.    Ye're  axin'  too  much,  woman." 

"But  ye  promised." 

"I  was  a  fool.  Na  papish  priest  darkens  ma  door. 
D'ye  hear,  woman  ?" 

"Ay,  but  ye  promised,  Jamie,  an'  it's  me  last  request. 
I'm  dyin',  Jamie." 

"Well,"  relenting,  "just  as  soon  as  I  get  this  cloth  off 
th'  loom — to-morrow  early — though  I  can't  see  what  guid 
a  papish  priest  can  do  ye,  nor  th'  parson,  either,  fer  that 
matther.  As  a  man  lives,  so  sail  he  die,  th'  guid  Book  says, 
an',"  cautiously,  "I  reckon  th'  woman  is  entitled  to  th' 
same  chances." 

The  sick  woman  was  fain  to  content  herself  with  the 
niggardly  promise.  She  sank  exhausted  on  the  pillow. 
Jamie  was  a  hard  taskmaster,  even  to  himself.  The 
"piece"  on  the  loom  was  a  long  one.  The  fire  was  twice 
replenished  andHhe  dawn  was  breaking  over  the  moun- 
tain tops  and  rocky  paths  that  skirted  his  cabin  when 
Jamie,  stiff,  weary  but  triumphant,  folded  up  with  care- 
ful precision  the  "finest  piece  o'  cloth  that  ever  left  th' 
loom." 

"Not  a  single  flaw  in  it,"  he  muttered,  proudly.  "I'll 
defy  anyone  to  find  one,"  and  then  the  thought  of  his  wife 
crossed  his  mind.  She  had  lain  very  quiet  for  a  long 
time,  fortunately  for  the  cloth. 

"An'  noo,  Mary,  lassie,"  he  said,  aloud,  "I'll  get  ye  th' 
tay.  Th'  last  guinea  is  ready.  Th'  hoose  is  mine.  Ay, 
th'  hoose  an'  ten  acres."  He  bustled  about  noisily  to  get 
21 


320       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

the  kinks  out  of  his  knees.  He  jingled  the  cups  and 
saucers  in  the  little  cupboard,  and  unearthed  a  grain  of 
tea  in  a  small  paper. 

"Wake  up,  lassie,"  he  said,  chuckling.  "Ye've  been 
patient  fer  a  long  time  noo.  Ye  sail  hae  yer  tay." 

No  answer. 

"Tay  is  a  mere  indulgence  o'  th'  mind,  a  mere  cravin' 
fer  an  expensive  dhrink  when  butthermilk  or  even  cold 
wather  would  answer  as  well.  What  is  tay,  anyhow? 
Boiled  wather  wi'  a  few  laves  of  a  Chany  plant  steeped  in 
it,  an'  God  knows  it  was  a  quare  fashion  to  start  dhrinkin' 
anythin'  that  a  dirty  haythen  invented." 

The  aroma  of  the  tea  was  perfuming  the  cabin.  Jamie 
was  comparatively  hilarious.  The  thought  of  work  well 
done — of  his  self-denial  for  an  object  so  worthy  as  a  home 
— made  him  forget  for  a  moment  his  troubles — the  sick 
wife  who  had  got  into  a  stubborn  habit  of  living,  and  the 
probable  loss  of  a  braw  new  one  in  consequence — and  he 
whistled.  It  wasn't  much  of  a  whistle.  Jamie  never 
could  carry  a  tune,  but  halting  and  crooked  as  it  was,  it 
should  have  waked  up  his  delinquent  partner  to  a  sense  of 
gratitude.  Jamie  seldom  indulged  even  in  whistling 

"Wake  up,  lassie,"  he  repeated ;  "here's  yer  tay." 

No  answer. 

"Mary,"  he  added,  with  new  gentleness,  and  shaking 
the  shoulder  near  him,  "yer  tay  is  ready,  lassie." 

The  wind  whistled  through  the  door  mournfully.  Sur- 
prised at  her  indifference,  he  extended  his  hand  over  the 
face,  which  was  turned  to  the  wall.  It  was  icy  cold.  All 
the  tea  in  the  Celestial  Empire,  were  it  steeped  in  one 
caldron  in  her  presence,  had  no  power  to  move  her  now. 

"She's  awa',"  said  Jamie,  startled  out  of  his  usual 
calmness.  "  She's  awa'." 


JAMIE  PATTERSON'S  HOOSE  AND  TEN  ACRES  321 

"Away?  Who's  away?"  said  a  voice  at  his  elbow. 
Jamie  jumped,  actually  jumped,  and  the  precious  tea  fell 
from  his  hands  and  sank  into  the  earthen  floor.  It  was 
only  a  neighbor  who  had  entered,  sans  ceremonie,  and  had 
helped  herself  to  a  live  coal.  The  coal  was  carried  in  tongs 
on  a  level  with  Jamie's  nose,  where  it  burned  fitfully, 
while  the  inquisitive  intruder,  forgetful  of  her  errand, 
glanced  sharply  around. 

"What's  th'  matther  wid  Mary?"  continued  the  neigh- 
bor. "Is  she  worse?  Spake  up,  man.  Give  her  a  warm 
dhrink.  Mebbe " 

"Hoot,"  said  the  weaver,  impatiently.  "Can't  ye  see 
fer  yersel'  that  Mary's  awa' — that  she's  deed  ?" 

"Dead!"  screamed  the  woman,  dropping  the  live  coal 
on  the  neatly-folded  pile  of  cloth  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 
"Dead!  Mary  dead,  widout  a  word  to  anyone,  widout 
a  friend  near  her,  widout  th'  rites  of  her  church,  wid- 
out a  prayer  to  help  her  along  th'  dark  road,  an'  her  own 
mother's  cousin,  but  three  times  removed,  widin  a  stone's 
throw  of  her,  an'  that's  meself !  Tis  little  she  tould  us, 
th'  crature,  though  we  knew  she  was  sufferin',  in  dhread 
we'd  be  down  on  ye.  'Tis  well  fer  ye  her  mother's  gone 
before,  'tis  well  fer  ye.  Asthore  machree,"  she  added, 
apostrophizing  the  corpse.  "  'Tis  a  lonesome  death  ye 
had;  but  yer  penance  is  over,  an'  ye're  in  glory  wid  yer 
mother,  who  would  give  her  heart's  blood  to  help  anyone 
in  throuble.  Oh,  well  I  remember  yer  first  mornin'  on 
earth.  'Twas  a  blessed  Christmas  mornin',  too,  an'  ye 
came  like  one  of  th'  snowflakes,  so  white  an'  so  calm,  an' 
th'  royal  welcome  we  gave  ye,  th'  one  child  God  sent  yer 
handsome  mother." 

"Ma  cloth  is  ruined!     Ma  cloth  is  ruined!"  shrieked 


322       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

the  weaver,  dragging  the  smoking  pile  to  the  light.  There 
was  a  suffocating  smell  of  burning  wool  rilling  the  cozy 
cabin,  and  the  weaver's  tears  overflowed  as  he  examined 
the  wreck  of  his  hopes.  "Oh,  ma  noble  cloth !"  he  cried, 
bitterly,  "ma  noble  cloth !" 

Burning  wool  is  bad  for  the  eyes,  but  it  had  no  effect 
on  those  of  the  neighbor  who  had  come  for  the  "coal  of 
turf."  Indignation  had  dried  the  source  of  her  tears,  and 
she  swung  the  empty  tongs  as  if  it  had  been  a  battle-ax, 
quite  forgetting  that  her  husband  and  two  sons  were 
awaiting  their  breakfast  of  potatoes  and  salmon  before 
going  out  to  the  fishing. 

Early  as  the  hour  was,  the  mingled  lamentations  of 
Jamie  Patterson  and  his  neighbor  drew  a  crowd  of  curi- 
ous persons  to  the  scene.  Neighboring  cabins  were 
opened,  and  half-clad  women  came  running  to  the  street. 

"Jamie  has  spoiled  his  work  someway,"  said  a  woman, 
who  had  come  first  on  the  scene,  to  the  rest. 

"Och,  'tis  meself  thought  th'  wife  was  dead,"  said  an- 
other, disappointedly. 

"She  is,"  interpolated  the  woman  with  the  empty  tongs, 
as  she  was  preparing  to  start  for  another  live  coal  and 
impart  the  earliest  news. 

"An'  Mary's  dead?"  questioned  another,  holding  her  by 
the  cloak. 

"Dead  fer  hours,"  added  the  other,  hastily,  "an'  I  must 
tell  th'  Moores.  They  are  second  cousins " 

"An'  Jamie's  cry  in' " 

"An'  Jamie's  cryin'  fer  his  cloth,"  added  the  woman  of 
the  tongs,  indignantly. 

"Arrah,  d'ye  expect  th'  like  o'  him  to  have  a  tear  fer  a 
Christian  ?" 


JAMIE  PATTERSON'S  HOOSE  AND  TEN  ACRES  323 

"That's  th'  way  to  serve  a  dacent  woman,"  said  another. 
"A  waver  has  no  heart.  Gi'  me  a  fisherman  any  minute." 

"An'  me,"  said  another.  "Th'  miserable  sprissawn! 
He  hasn't  th'  heart  of  a  fly." 

Women  with  their  baskets  were  wending  their  way  to 
the  beach  to  gather  in  the  shell-fish  before  the  tide  came  in. 
The  news  lost  nothing  in  the  telling.  The  dead  woman 
was  well  known  and  liked.  The  shell-fish  gatherers  were 
properly  sympathetic. 

"Died  widout  th'  benefit  of  th'  clargy,"  said  one  woman, 
"an'  Father  Tom  just  across  th'  Bay." 

"An'  what  'ud  ye  expect  of  an  Orangeman  ?"  added  an- 
other, significantly. 

"Tis  ducked  in  th'  say  he  ought  to  be." 

"An'  I'd  like  to  be  th'  one  to  do  it,"  and  a  big  fish-wife 
set  her  arms  akimbo  and  looked  ready  for  action.  "I'd 
do  it  wid  one  hand  ahint  me." 

"He's  a  miserable  little  misard,"  said  another,  "an'  was 
mane  an'  cruel  to  th'  poor  girl." 

"An'  d'ye  think  he'll  be  let  pass  to  punish  another  wo- 
man, mebbe?" 

"Let  th'  other  woman  alone  to  take  care  o'  herself." 

"Ye  don't  mane  to  say  he's  been  courtin'  already?  An' 
who's  th'  woman  ?" 

"Never  mind.  Ye'll  soon  know.  She'll  knock  th'  price 
o'  Mary  out  o'  him  !" 

"Well,  fer  fear  she  wouldn't,  here  goes!"  said  the  big 
woman,  dropping  her  basket. 

There  is  no  knowing  to  what  extent  the  women  of  the 
sea  would  have  carried  their  wrath,  if  something  more 
interesting  had  not  at  this  time  arrested  their  attention. 
This  something  was  a  young  lady  of  graceful  mien  and 


324       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

quick  step,  who,  accompanied  by  "Ned  the  innocent/' 
was  making  her  way  toward  them. 

"It's  Miss  Eleanor,  an'  where  is  she  goin'  so  airly?" 
said  Nancy.  Miss  Eleanor  was  Father  Tom's  niece.  She 
answered  their  unspoken  question  in  her  own  characteris- 
tic way. 

"Can  any  of  you  tell  me  how  Mary  Patterson  is  this 
morning?"  she  asked,  sweetly.  "I'm  making  an  early  call, 
but  it  is  one  I  intended  to  make  last  week.  I  have  been 
dreaming  of  the  poor  woman  all  night,  and  cannot  help 
feeling  she  must  be  worse." 

"Mary  died  last  night,"  said  one  of  the  women,  regard- 
ing the  contents  of  the  basket  that  Ned  was  carrying. 
There  was  a  package  of  tea,  some  jelly,  and  other  dainties. 

Miss  Eleanor's  face  was  very  pale.  "I  feel  ashamed 
that  I  put  off  my  good  impulse  so  long,"  she  said.  "The 
poor  woman  is  beyond  our  help  now.  Poor  Mary !" 

"Well,  he  isn't,"  said  the  fisherwoman,  taking  heart. 
"Jamie  was  makin'  money  an'  lettin'  her  want." 

The  young  lady  listened  attentively  to  their  plan  for 
punishing  the  weaver.  "If  ever  there  was  anything  in  a 
dream,"  she  said,  "then  mine  came  to  me  to  some  purpose. 
Mary,  who  was  always  so  good  and  just,  knew  how  in- 
dignant you  would  be  and  wished  me  to  prevent  you 
from  hurting  her  husband.  If  you  must  duck  anyone  in 
the  sea,  then  duck  me.  I  deserve  it  for  neglecting  my 
duty." 

The  women  were  set  in  their  purpose,  and  hard  to  per- 
suade from  it.  "He  shed  tears  fer  th'  cloth,  but  none  fer 
his  wife,  an'  he  neglected  her.  I'm  not  much  of  a  Chrick- 
shen  meself,"  said  big  Nancy,  "but  if  ye  let  me  duck  him 
thray  times  in  th'  wather,  I'll  say  me  prayers  every  day  fer 


JAMIE  PATTERSON'S  HOOSE  AND  TEN  ACRES  325 

a  year.  I'm  not  much  of  a  Chrickshen  meself,  as  I  said 
afore;  but  if  a  man  or  a  woman  wants  their  clergyman 
when  they  lie  a-dyin',  let  them  have  'em !" 

"Jamie  Patterson  is  a  very  industrious  man,"  said  Miss 
Eleanor. 

"Industhrious  indeed,  an'  who  fer?"  said  a  chorus  of 
women,  indignantly.  "Gettin'  property  fer  hisself.  He's 
a  mane,  low  misard,  a " 

"But  he  was  poor  Mary's  husband,  and  she  loved  him." 

"An'  he  was  cruel  to  her — — " 

"He  had  a  sick  wife  for  many  years.  It  was  a  great 
trial." 

"But  he  denied  her  th'  rites  of  her  church." 

"He  was  brought  up  in  a  different  faith  from  her  own. 
You  must  not  forget  that.  He  thought  he  was  doing 
right,  no  doubt." 

Nancy's  face  was  very  red.  She  did  not  like  to  mention 
certain  things  before  Miss  Eleanor ;  but  she  had  to  do  so, 
in  order  to  win  her  point,  and  the  point  was  to  give  Jamie 
a  well-deserved  ducking.  Nancy  did  not  belong  to  the  old 
faith,  but  she  liked  fair  play,  and  fair  play  meant  to  duck 
Jamie  three  times,  at  least,  in  the  sea. 

"  If  ye  must  know  th'  truth,"  she  said,  "  I'll  tell  ye.  He's 
been  around  courtin'  another  woman,  an'  waitin'  fer  Mary 
to  die." 

"If  he  has  done  wrong  to  his  wife,"  said  Miss  Eleanor, 
after  a  pause,  "he  will  be  sufficiently  punished  by  his  own 
conscience.  Mary  loved  him,  and  that  is  enough  for  us. 
She  never  complained  of  him,  and  would  forgive  him  at 
any  moment.  If  you  wish  to  please  Mary,  let  her  husband 
alone.  As  I  am  here,  I  will  help  prepare  the  body  for 
burial.  When  your  work  is  done,  come  and  help  me,  and 
say  no  more  about  revenge.  Leave  that  to  the  Lord." 


326       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

Jamie  was  still  bemoaning  his  cloth  as  the  young  lady 
entered,  and  he  never  knew  what  a  narrow  escape  he  had 
from  a  cold  and  protracted  bath  in  the  dancing  sea. 

If  Miss  Eleanor  had  subjugated  the  fisherwomen  to  her 
wishes,  she  couldn't  count  on  the  woman  with  the  tongs. 
She  had  been  the  rounds,  and  by  nursing  her  resentment 
it  had  grown  to  gigantic  proportions.  She  wielded  her 
tongs  unconsciously  in  the  direction  of  Jamie,  and  it  re- 
quired all  Miss  Eleanor's  diplomacy  to  prevent  them  from 
falling  on  the  object  of  her  wrath.  There  was  to  be  a 
gathering  of  the  clans  at  the  wake.  All  the  old  families, 
remnants  of  dead  and  gone  warriors  who  had  been  driven 
to  Connemara  by  Cromwell,  would  be  there,  and  there 
was  no  knowing  what  would  happen.  Father  Tom  must 
be  notified,  and  that  quickly.  The  ducking  that  she  had 
prevented  would  be  nothing  to  this  new  trouble.  She  sent 
the  faithful  Ned  on  his  errand,  and  in  the  meantime  she 
called  the  indignant  lady  of  the  tongs  in  to  the  bedside 
of  the  woman  whose  beauty  had  been  so  miraculously  re- 
stored by  death.  There  had  been  a  great  change  in  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  cabin  since  early  morning.  Eleanor  and 
her  staff  of  assistants  had  swept  and  garnished  every- 
thing before  them.  The  loom  was  set  aside,  and  the  dead 
woman's  poor  little  heirlooms — linen  sheets,  a  tablecloth, 
a  crucifix,  a  couple  of  candlesticks,  and  a  blessed  water- 
stoup — were  placed  where  all  could  see  them. 

Jamie  regarded  this  as  papish  mummery,  but  his  respect 
for  Miss  Eleanor  kept  him  from  any  other  sign  of  disap- 
proval than  a  couple  of  contemptuous  sniffs.  He  was  sit- 
ting on  a  low  stool  in  the  outer  room  amid  the  ruins  of  his 
cloth,  and  the  grief  in  his  face  might  be  attributed  to  either 
of  his  recent  losses.  Most  of  the  women  attributed  it  to 


JAMIE  PATTERSON'S  HOOSE  AND  TEN  ACRES  327 

the  last,  and  it  took  more  than  a  glance  from  Miss  Eleanor 
to  keep  big  Nancy's  hands  from  throwing  him  and  his  web 
of  cloth  into  the  sea. 

On  the  walls  surrounding  the  bed  were  hung  the  sheets 
that  had  done  duty  on  similar  occasions  for  her  mother  and 
numberless  ancestors.  These  had  pinned  in  them  sprigs  of 
holy  palm  and  bunches  of  mountain  arbutus.  Beneath  this 
unwonted  finery,  on  the  low,  old-fashioned  bed,  lay  the 
body  of  the  weaver's  wife.  Never  since  the  day  of  her 
wedding  had  the  poor  woman's  toilet  received  such  atten- 
tion. 

"  She  never  looked  so  nice  since  she  marrit  th'  weaver," 
whispered  Nancy.  "He  couldn't  bear  to  see  her  dressed 
up ;  he  always  said  it  was  a  waste  of  time." 

"Ay,  she  looks  like  herself  sure,  though  she  weighs  no 
more  than  a  bird,"  said  another,  putting  a  rosary  in  the 
wasted  hands  and  folding  them  on  the  pulseless  breast. 

"An'  she  might  have  marrit  th'  man  at  th'  mill  that  owns 
two  boats  an'  a  share  in  Larry  Dempsey's  smack,  besides 
a  home  fit  fer  a " 

"Well,  she's  at  home  now,  anyway,"  and  another 
smoothed  the  rippling  dark  hair  on  each  side  of  the  broad 
brow. 

"She's  smilin'  again,  th'  crature,  meetin'  her  mother, 
perhaps,  who  was  so  long  waitin'  her." 

It  was  to  this  low  bed  of  finery  and  sorrow  that  Miss 
Eleanor  brought  the  infuriated  woman  with  the  tongs. 
She  pointed  to  the  lovely,  child-like  face,  with  the  long 
lashes  curling  on  the  pallid  cheek,  and  a  smile,  as  of  joy, 
on  the  lips. 

"Poor  Mary  is  resting,"  she  whispered.  "Would  you 
disturb  her?" 


328       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

At  the  burst  of  tears  that  followed,  she  took  the  weapon 
from  the  woman's  hand.  "Let  there  be  peace.  That  was 
Mary's  wish,"  she  continued ;  and  there  was  peace. 

It  is  hard  for  some  people  to  forego  a  revenge,  and  the 
weeping  woman  was  one  of  these.  She  kept  the  peace, 
but  she  flung  a  parting  shaft  at  the  weaver  as  she  went  out. 

"Ye're  cryin'  about  yer  cloth,"  she  said,  "ye  ould  vaga- 
bond ;  ye're  cryin'  about  yer  cloth,  but  ye  haven't  a  tear  to 
spare  fer  th'  poor  girl  who  placed  her  life  in  yer  hands 
seven  weary  years  ago.  Ye've  lost  Mary,  but  ye've  gained 
a  house  an'  ten  acres,  an'  much  good  it  will  do  ye.  Ye've 
killed  yer  wife,  Jamie  Patterson,  as  thruely  as  if  ye  had 
put  a  knife  in  her  heart ;  but  it  will  come  home  to  ye,  me 
man ;  it  will  come  home  to  ye,  mark  my  words." 


Jamie  Patterson's  "braw  noo  wife"  was  regarding  her- 
self very  earnestly  in  a  mirror  to  the  accompaniment 
of  a  whirring  loom.  Jamie  had  moved  into  his  "noo 
hoose  wi'  th'  ten  acres."  His  wife  was  good-locking  and 
strong,  lively  and  gay.  All  these  qualities  Jamie  had  ad- 
mired in  the  past,  but  just  now  he  sighed.  Such  is  the 
perversity  of  man. 

The  mirror  was  small  and  the  face  that  looked  into  its 
depths  was  very  large,  and  it  was  only  by  a  constant  and 
rotary  motion  that  the  lady  could  be  kept  fully  informed 
of  the  condition  of  her  countenance.  She  was  looking  at 
an  installment  of  her  fair  cheek,  when  her  husband 
stopped  his  work  and  looked  at  the  back  of  her  head  in  a 
troubled  way. 

"Ye'll  have  to  buy  me  a  new  glass,  Jamie,  when  ye  go 
to  Clifden  wid  yer  next  web  of  cloth.  I  can't  see  meself 


JAMIE  PATTERSON'S  HOOSE  AND  TEN  ACRES  329 

in  this  at  all,  at  all.  It's  enough  to  drive  a  dacent  woman 
crazy,"  said  the  lady. 

Jamie's  answer  was  another  question. 

"What  fer  are  ye  speerin'  ferever  in  th'  glass?"  he 
queried.  "Th'  guid  Book  says,  'All  flesh  is  grass' " 

"Thrue  fer  th'  'guid  Book,'  "  said  his  wife,  mockingly. 
"Sure,  grass  is  good  while  it  lasts.  'Tis  time  enough  to 
be  doleful  when  th'  grass  is  hay,"  and  she  smirked  pleas- 
antly at  that  portion  of  her  blooming  visage  that  was 
reflected  in  the  mirror. 

"Ye  seem  to  be  dressin'  oop  to-nicht,"  he  said. 

"An'  why  not?  Sure,  there's  no  law  agin  a  woman 
makin'  th'  most  of  herself." 

"Th'  guid  Book  says " 

"Arrah,  lave  me  alone  till  I  finish  curlin'  me  hair." 

"  Ye're  no  goin'  out  th'  nicht,  woman  ?" 

"I  am  that.  D'ye  ferget  Annie  Featherstone's  wed- 
din'?" 

"I  didna  intend  to  remember  Annie  Featherstone's  wed- 
din'.  A  guid  wife's  place  is  by  her  ane  fireside,  an' " 

"An'  ye  can  stay  an'  mind  th'  fire.  'Tis  th'  best  place 
fer  ye." 

"Ye  canna  lave  this  hoose  to-nicht,  mak'  oop  yer  mind 
on  that,  woman.  Fer  I  durstna  lave  this  loom  noo." 

The  new  wife  laughed.  "  No  one  is  axin'  ye.  Ye  look 
well  at  th'  loom.  Stay  at  it,  me  man.  As  fer  me,  there's 
a  crowd  of  dacent  people  comin'  home  th'  same  way,  an' 
I'll  no  be  short  of  company." 

The  weaver  came  forward  and  looked  sternly  at  his 
wife.  He  believed  in  the  power  of  the  human  eye,  with  a 
slight  leaning  in  favor  of  his  own.  One  glance  had  been 
enough  to  reduce  his  first  wife  to  the  most  abject  obedi- 


330       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

ence.  It  had  no  effect  on  the  present  partner  of  his  joys 
and  sorrows.  She  only  laughed  long  and  heartily,  and 
turned  to  finish  her  toilet.  The  weaver  was  in  despair. 
There  was  something  about  the  man  that  a  devoted  wife 
would  have  noticed  at  once.  He  was  unusually  haggard 
and  pale  and  carried  an  air  of  terror,  for  he  cast  many 
glances  around. 

"Stay  wi'  me  to-nicht,  Kitty,"  he  said.  "I— I  don't 
feel  well." 

"What  fer?  Eyah,  d'ye  think  I'd  lose  th'  fun  o'  th' 
weddin'  fer  any  o'  yer  ould  pisthrogues?  Have  sense, 
man." 

"Ye'll  be  sorra  fer  goin' " 

"Sorry  a  fear  o'  me.    I'm  not  that  kind." 

"An'  ye'll  lave  me  here  to  work  alone?" 

"An'  why  not?  Isn't  it  fer  that  I  marrit  ye — th'  most 
industhrious  man  an'  th'  best  weaver  in  th'  county  ?" 

The  weaver's  lip  trembled.  "D'ye  hear  anythin'?"  he 
muttered,  looking  at  her  in  a  frightened  way. 

The  new  wife  heard  the  words,  but  she  did  not  catch 
the  look.  "It's  Danny  Dunn  an'  his  fiddle,"  she  answered, 
hastily,  as  a  faint  strain  was  borne  on  the  breeze.  "He's 
wid  th'  groom's  party,  an'  I'm  no  half  ready.  Whist,  will 
ye,  till  I  get  me  shoes  an'  stockin's  on." 

"I  don't  mind  it  much  when  I  hae  company,"  the  little 
weaver  muttered,  half  to  himself. 

"Mind  what?"  asked  his  wife,  who  was  busy  covering 
her  extremities  with  snow-white  stockings  and  low  shoes, 
which  were  evidently  kept  for  great  occasions,  though 
many  said  that  she  was  vain  of  her  feet,  and  often  went 
barefoot  for  the  purpose  of  exhibiting  their  whiteness  and 
slim  proportions. 


JAMIE  PATTERSON'S  HOOSE  AND  TEN  ACRES  331 

"D'ye  ever  hear  it?  I  wonder  if  anyone  else  hears  it," 
the  man  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"What  are  ye  sayin'?"  impatiently  asked  his  wife. 
"Hear  what?" 

"Th'  loom.  Did  ye  ever  hear  it  sayin'  anythin'  when 
ye  worked  on  it  ?" 

"'Tis  very  little  I  ever  worked  over  a  loom,  but  it  never 
said  anythin'  to  me.  Ye're  crazy,  man." 

"Did  ye  never  hear  it  keep  in  rhyme  to  yer  thoughts?" 

His  wife  laughed.  "Yes,  to  a  tune  in  me  head,  Th' 
Pretty  Girls  of  Coolroe,'  or  Th'  Rocky  Road  to  Dub- 
lin.' " 

"No,  no,  different — sad  an'  solemn  words.  I  don't 
mind  it  if  I  hae  company.  I  could  work  all  nicht,  an'  tak' 
no  notice." 

"Ye're  crazy,  man.  I'm  scared  to  stay  wid  ye.  Here's 
th'  crowd  at  th'  turn  o'  th'  road,  now.  I  must  be  goin'." 

"An5  ye  won't  stay?" 

"No,  indeed.  Good-by.  Go  on  to  yer  work,  an'  never 
mind  what  th'  loom  says." 

A  burst  of  music  and  hearty  laughter  came  in  the  door 
as  it  opened  for  the  exit  of  the  braw  woman,  and  van- 
ished with  her  down  the  road,  till  it  became  a  faint,  sweet 
echo  from  the  neighboring  hills.  The  weaver  turned, 
more  from  force  of  habit  than  anything  else,  and  seated 
himself  at  the  loom.  In  a  few  moments  he  sprang  up 
hastily,  and  sat  again  in  the  broad  chimney. 

His  hair  seemed  to  take  an  upward  turn,  for  he  placed 
a  trembling  hand  as  if  to  hold  it  in  place.  He  regarded 
the  loom  with  a  troubled  look.  The  web  that  was  lying 
in  it  was  getting  along  very  slowly,  and  the  purchaser 
was  waiting.  His  imagination  was  playing  havoc  with 


332  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

him.  What  was  going  to  become  of  him,  he  asked  him- 
self again  and  again. 

The  fire  was  smoldering,  and  dark  shadows  began  to 
flit  across  the  whitewashed  walls.  He  thought  he  would 
cover  up  the  fire  altogether,  fasten  the  door  and  go  to 
bed.  The  thought  pleased  him.  He  would  make  his  wife 
hammer  at  it  for  an  hour  or  two  before  he  rose  to  admit 
her.  But  then  the  thought  of  his  unfinished  work  lay 
heavy  on  his  heart,  and  prevented  his  revenge. 

How  strange  the  loom  looked  in  the  dim  light,  and 
how  many  different  forms  it  assumed!  Now  it  was  a 
fishing-smack  off  Ard  Bay,  with  the  men  casting  their 
nets.  In  a  moment  it  changed  to  a  wreck  beating  on  the 
rocks,  and  dead  faces  surrounding  it  in  the  angry  waters. 
Again  it  changed  into  a  coffin  with  four  bearers  carrying 
it  slowly  but  surely  toward  him.  He  tried  to  run  away, 
but  his  eyes  were  fastened  to  the  grim  illusion.  There, 
the  top  was  off — the  top  of  the  coffin — and  lying  within 
was  the  form  of  his  first  wife,  with  crossed  hands  and 
smiling  lips,  and  the  lashes  resting  on  her  pale  cheeks, 
just  as  he  had  seen  her  before  the  grave  had  covered 
her  up  forever. 

"Mary!"  he  cried,  involuntarily.  "Mary!"  For  an- 
swer the  door  was  pushed  in  and  a  form  fell  into  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room.  Jamie  shrieked. 

"Hoots,  mon,  ye're  crazy !  What  fer  are  ye  schreechin' 
lak  a  banshee  in  a  graveyard?  It's  a  fine  wulcom  to  gie 
a  frien'  an'  me  thrav'lin'  five  mile  to  be  here  th'  nicht." 

Jamie's  welcome,  though  not  effusive,  was  sincere. 

"I  was  peepin'  at  ye  through  th'  windy  fer  th'  last  half 
oor,  an'  ca'in'  at  th'  tap  o'  me  voice,  but  ye  no  heeded 
me.  Ye  look  mighty  dour  fer  a  noo  marrit  mon." 


JAMIE  PATTERSON'S  HOOSE  AND  TEN  ACRES  333 

Jamie  asserted  his  belief  that  he  was  "na  weel." 

"Ye're  warkin'  too  hard,  mon,  an'  ye're  fair  narvous; 
tak'  a  pull  at  this." 

His  friend  was  a  weaver  and  a  playmate  from  the 
" black  North,"  and  sympathized  with  him  in  his  difficulty 
about  the  "web  o'  cloth." 

"Only  fer  desturbin'  yer  guid  wife,  I'd  feenish  th'  job 
fer  ye  th'  nicht,"  said  his  friend. 

He  whistled  when  Jamie  told  his  story,  and  looked 
knowing. 

"Ye  sud  ha'  pulled  oop  an'  gone  back  to  Londonderry 
when  th'  ferst  woman  died,"  he  said.  "Lave  this  place 
wi'  its  rocks  an'  hills  an'  wather,  an'  coom  hame.  Yer  noo 
wife  is  one  of  th'  right  sort  an'  ye'll  mak'  a  livin'  fine. 
T is  always  best  fer  a  mon  to  marry  into  his  ane  religion," 
he  added.  "Mary  was  guid  enoo,  if  she  was  no  a 
papist." 

Jamie  was  not  in  a  mood  to  talk  on  the  subject  of 
women,  and  his  friend  offered  to  finish  the  "web."  Jamie 
sat  and  watched  him  with  wide-open  eyes. 

"Does  th'  loom  say  naethin'  to  ye?"  he  asked. 

"Does  th'  loom  say  naethin'?"  repeated  his  friend. 
"What  a  feckless  question!  It  says,  'whirr,  whirr,  birr, 
birr/  lak  all  looms." 

"It  talks  to  me,"  said  Jamie.  "It  talks  to  me  all  th' 
time." 

"Ye're  crazy,  mon,  an'  'tis  all  in  th'  'magination." 

"No,  no;  it's  no  'magination.  It  talks,  talks  all  th'  time. 
Listen !" 

"Tak'  anither  pull  o'  th'  bottle,  mon;  ye're  goin'  fair 
daft.  What  on  airth  is  th'  matther  wi'  ye  ?" 

Jamie  was  never  a  bottle  man,  and  what  he  imbibed 


334       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

made  him  only  more  melancholy.  His  friend,  however, 
became  more  hilarious  with  each  succeeding  dose.  He 
was  a  happy-go-lucky  weaver,  untrammeled  by  domestic 
ties,  and  at  home  everywhere. 

After  trying  his  hand  at  a  psalm,  "The  Boyne  Water," 
and  "Croppy,  Lie  Down,"  he  went  back  to  the  work  with 
great  spirit.  Again  the  loom  felt  the  hand  of  a  master, 
again  the  dancing  bobbin  passed  back  and  forth  on  its 
errand  of  usefulness.  The  piece  of  cloth  was  steadily 
growing,  and  making  rapid  strides  toward  completion. 

Jamie  was  watching  his  friend  with  bloodless  lips  and 
staring  eyes.  Suddenly  he  raised  his  hands.  "D'ye  hear 
it,  mon?  D'ye  hear  it?  Ye  can't  deny  it,  mon,  ye  can't 
deny  it.  It's  ever  an'  ay  th'  same,  'Gie  me  a  dhrink,  Jamie, 
gie  me  a  dhrink.'  Oh,  stop  th'  loom,  mon,  or  I  sail  go 
mad ;  an'  it's  Mary's  voice,  ever  an'  always  Mary's  voice. 
Oh,  stop  th'  loom,  mon,  or  I " 

It  was  a  stark,  staring  madman  that  was  standing  over 
the  loom  when  the  weaver  looked  up  from  his  task.  But 
with  true  North  coolness,  helped  out  by  the  bottle,  he 
answered : 

"Wull,  an'  she's  thirsty,  gie  her  a  dhrink,"  and  he 
poured  the  contents  of  the  bottle  on  the  cloth,  and  then 
ran  for  the  water-pail  and  dashed  it  above  and  about  it, 
while  Jamie  stared  with  wide-open  eyes  at  the  damage 
done  to  "one  o'  th'  finest  webs  in  th'  worl'." 

It  was  now  Jamie's  turn  to  take  a  hand.  He  turned 
to  the  corner  and  grasped  an  ax.  The  visitor,  now  com- 
pletely sobered  and  thinking  the  ax  was  intended  for  him, 
made  a  bee-line  for  a  gaily  curtained  bed  that  formed  the 
chief  ornament  in  the  new  home,  and  dived  beneath  its 
capacious  valance. 


JAMIE  PATTERSON'S  HOOSE  AND  TEN  ACRES  335 

The  ax,  however,  was  intended  for  the  loom,  and 
Jamie  slashed  away  at  his  bread-winner  till  all  that  was 
left  of  it  was  a  mass  of  ruins.  At  every  fall  of  the  ax,  the 
unfortunate  man  under  the  bed  gave  vent  to  a  yell,  that 
was  almost  sufficient  to  wake  the  dead  in  the  adjoining 
graveyard. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  and  his  wife,  won- 
dering at  the  unwonted  sounds,  and  all  tired  and  dishev- 
eled from  her  night's  dissipation,  and  accompanied  by 
a  few  favored  friends,  came  in.  We  will  draw  a  veil 
on  the  rest. 


On  the  road  from  Roundstone  to  the  Bay,  which  is 
a  complete  zigzag,  a  beggar-man  was  wearily  climbing. 
The  day  was  nearly  spent,  yet  his  bag  was  almost  empty, 
and  the  few  potatoes  it  contained — perhaps  three  or  four 
— were  rattling  against  his  heels  as  he  walked.  As  he 
sank  down  for  a  moment  to  rest  on  the  mossy  side  of  a 
rock,  a  group  of  women  passed  to  market.  They  were 
in  pretty  good  humor  and  the  echoes  of  their  laughter 
were  carried  back  to  the  Glen. 

One  woman  stopped  and  gave  the  beggar  a  sharp  look. 
Jamie  knew  her  as  the  woman  of  the  tongs,  who  was 
always  coming  for  a  live  "coal  o'  turf,"  and  he  knew  what 
was  coming  and  braced  himself. 

"Oh,  I  know  ye,  Jamie  Patterson;  I  know  ye,"  she 
cried.  "What  brought  ye  back  from  Derry  to  th'  King- 
dom of  Connemara?  Yer  new  wife  has  marrit  again, 
an'  claims  th'  'hoose  an'  ten  acres'  be  raison  of  yer  bein' 
out  of  yer  mind.  Ye  may  thravel  from  Lough  Corrib  to 
Ard  Bay,  an'  ye'll  carry  'round  an  empty  bag,  while 
aa 


336       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

every  other  poor  man's  is  full.  Th'  people  remember 
how  ye  served  poor  Mary,  who  thought  so  much  of  ye. 
Yer  new  wife  didn't  marry  ye.  She  marrit  th'  'hoose 
an'  ten  acres,'  wid  th'  loom  thrown  in.  She  marrit  an- 
other loom  wid  a  man  thrown  in,  an'  ye're  as  ye  deserve 
to  be,  a  beggar  an'  a  wanderer." 

She  waved  her  hands  as  she  formerly  waved  her  tongs, 
but  the  beggar-man  neither  spoke  nor  stirred. 

"Come  away,"  said  her  companion,  tugging  at  her 
cloak;  "'tis  poor  work  throwin'  wather  on  a  dhrownded 
rat.  He  has  enough  to  bear  widout  any  remindher  of  past 
days.  I  think  he's  carrin'  th'  bag  fer  penance.  What 
brings  him  back  from  Derry  unless,  fer  he's  as  fine  a 
waver  as  ever  started  a  loom.  Tis  penance  he's  doin', 
I  tell  ye ;  an'  more  betoken,  ye'll  find  him  at  Mary's  grave 
every  evenin',  sittin'  sad  an'  lonesom',  an'  a  little  cup  in 
his  hand  fer  catchin'  th'  rain  so  Mary  can  have  a  dhrink." 

This  put  a  new  aspect  on  the  matter;  for  there  is  no 
country  so  appreciative  of  acts  of  personal  reparation, 
however  peculiar,  and  which  are  denominated  by  the 
people  in  general  as  "doin'  penance." 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE  337 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE. 

"What'll  ye  have?" 

"  Th'  Pretty  Girls  of  Coolroe.'  " 

"  Th'  Hare  in  th'  Corn.'  " 

"One  tune  at  a  time,  boys ;  one  tune  at  a  time.  Which'll 
I  play  first?  Well,  here  goes  'Th'  Hare  in  th'  Corn.'  " 

As  the  strains  of  the  well-known  air  were  released 
from  the  chanter,  the  piper  paced  up  and  down  between 
the  rows  of  laughing  boys  and  girls,  scattering  the  wild 
music  into  every  crevice  of  the  Glen,  and  over  the  moun- 
tain passes  as  far  as  Bena  Cullagh.  It  rippled  over  the 
bosom  of  the  lake  and  was  echoed  back  from  the  surround- 
ing hills.  The  moon  hung  like  a  lamp  over  the  beautiful 
scene  till  shamed  into  insignificance  by  the  glare  of  the 
bonfires  that  now  burst  out  on  all  sides. 

The  girls  had  been  preparing  for  St.  John's  Eve,  and 
every  bit  of  finery  in  the  Glen  was  airing  in  the  gentle 
summer  breeze.  So  many  new  scarlet  petticoats  and  blue 
bodices  and  yellow  handkerchiefs  surrounding  white 
throats,  or  of  pretty,  laughing  faces  had  indeed  been  sel- 
dom seen  together. 

"Take  yer  partners  fer  th'  dance,  boys,  an'  be  quick 
about  it.  Don't  let  th'  music  grow  cold." 

They  didn't.  Up  and  down  and  in  and  out  they  went, 
laughing  and  dancing  and  circling  and  twisting,  till  it 
came  to  the  serious  business  of  the  night,  and  that  was 


338       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

to  settle  the  rival  claims  of  the  two  adjoining  villages  as 
to  who  was  entitled  to  the  palm  for  dancing. 

Only  two  more  couples  were  left,  and  they  were  both 
from  F . 

""Pis  hard  to  stand  it,"  whispered  one  of  the  girls, 
looking  regretfully  at  a  cake,  poised  prominently  on  a 
churn-dash.  "'Tis  hard  to  see  them  take  th'  prize  away 
two  years  runnin',  an'  good  dancers  of  our  own  within  a 
stone's  throw." 

"He's  a  good  dancer,  though — that  fellow  that's  pow- 
dherin'  away  at  th'  slip- jig.  Look  at  him  now !  You'd 
think  he  was  greased  all  over,  an'  a  joint  in  every  inch  of 
him  an'  his  partner,  too !" 

"  Straighten  th'  chest,  back  wid  th'  elbows,  an'  cover  th' 
buckle !"  shouted  the  piper,  in  deligkt  at  the  gyrations  of 
the  supple  fellow  before  him. 

"That  isn't  fair  to  decide  now,  so  airly  in  th'  evenin'," 
whispered  another.  "Mebbe  more  of  th'  girls  would  be 
here  by  an'  by." 

"If  we  only  had  Mary  Brady  here !" 

"If  we  had — arrah,  d'ye  think  that  ould  misard  of  hers 
'ud  let  her  come?  Sorra  a  fut.  But  there's  her  cousin 
now.  What  a  pair  they'd  make!  They  couldn't  touch 
them  in  six  baronies,  if  they  were  together !" 

"From  Ballmalcama  to  Kilkieran  Bays  ye  couldn't  find 
their  beat.  Stay  an'  let's  have  a  talk  wid  him.  Philip ! 
Philip,  I  say!" 

Philip  was  a  bright,  handsome-looking  fellow,  and  was 
quite  moody  over  the  way  things  were  going.  Could  he 
get  his  cousin  Mary  ?  Maybe.  It  was  worth  while  trying. 
He'd  go  and  talk  to  the  old  man. 

fit  this  moment  the  dancer  who  was  the  center  of  at- 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE  339 

traction  gave  an  athletic  spring  and  came  down  with  a 
resounding  clap  of  his  heels  together,  executed  another 
stampede  around  and  around,  and  then,  bringing  the  right 
foot  behind  the  left,  took  off  his  caubeen  and  bowed  him- 
self off.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  clapping  and  cheering 

from  the  village  of  F ;  but  Glendallagh,  though 

just,  was  of  course  not  expected  to  be  enthusiastic. 

"  Friends  an'  neighbors,  boys  an'  girls,  I  have  a  word  to 
say,"  and  Philip  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  as 
the  crowds  that  had  been  congratulating  the  triumphant 
dancer  now  turned  a  battery  of  bright  eyes  in  his  direc- 
tion. 

"No  fightin',  Philip,  no  fightin';  seein'  th'  boy  has  won 
th'  prize  fair  an'  square,  let  him  take  it,"  interposed  an 
elderly  man,  nervously. 

"There'll  be  no  fightin'," said  Philip,  quietly ;  "an'  as  fer 
th'  prize,  I'm  no  school-boy  to  go  cry  in'  fer  a  cake,  an'  I 
think  I  can  venture  to  say  th'  same  of  th'  young  man 
beyant  who  has  danced  so  well."  (Sounds  of  applause 
from  the  rival  villagers.)  "I'm  spakin'  now  fer  fair  play 
an'  th'  honor  of  th'  thing.  This  is  th'  second  year  we've 
lost  th'  prize — I  may  say,  championship.  Our  best  dancers 
aren't  here,  nor  they  waren't  here  last  time.  One  of  them 
is  here  now,  on  a  visit  from  America.  Sure,  ye  all  know 
Andy  Delaney."  (Cheers.)  "He's  willin'  to  dance  if  I 
get  his  partner.  I'm  goin'  fer  her.  It's  airly  in  th'  evenin' 
yet;  all  I  ask  is  another  fair  trial,  if  I  succeed  in  gettin' 
th'  lady;  an'  if  not,  let  matthers  stand  as  they  are.  But 
there'll  be  no  fightin',  anyway.  When  we  want  to  fight, 
we'll  fight  fer  something  betther  than  a  sweet  cake,  an' 
against  a  common  enemy,  not  with  one  another."  A  noisy 
and  unanimous  assent  was  immediately  given. 


340  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"We  may  be  a  little  while  away,  so  don't  waste  time  in 
waitin'.  Let  th'  fun  go  on !"  shouted  Philip,  as  he  turned 
to  go. 

And  the  fun  went  on.  Everyone  is  not  born  to  excel, 
and  many  were  content  with  enjoying  themselves  by  taking 
a  turn  at  an  eight-handed  reel,  a  moneen,  or  a  jig  in  their 
own  way  on  the  sweet,  cool  grass  beneath  the  moon's 
witching  beams. 

Philip  turned  to  view  the  scene  he  was  leaving,  and 
it  was  worth  it.  This  favorite  spot  for  dancing  was  on 
the  borders  of  one  of  the  prettiest  lakes  in  the  whole  of 
this  wonderful  country  of  lakes.  The  lake  was  com- 
pletely circled  by  ridges  of  wooded  mountains,  that  were 
reflected  in  the  clear  water  and  that  isolated  it  from  the 
surrounding  country  as  completely  as  if  it  were  situated 
in  Africa.  You  might  be  in  its  vicinity  all  day  and  know 
nothing  of  it,  till  an  unexpected  turning  in  the  "ma'am" 
(mountain  pass)  would  fling  it  before  you  in  all  its 
beauty.  A  few  stragglers  were  climbing  over  the  moun- 
tains on  their  way  to  the  festival,  their  scarlet  petticoats 
and  blue  mantles  making  them  look  like  fairies  in  the 
moonlight. 

Philip  was  joined  by  three  or  four  young  men,  one  of 
them  being  the  returned  American.  Andy  Delaney  would 
have  been  very  much  surprised  if  anyone  had  told  him  he 
was  a  poet ;  but  the  eyes  that  drank  in  the  beautiful  scene, 
and  gloried  in  it,  were  not  unlike  those  that  belong  to  the 
gifted  ones  who  observe  the  flush  in  the  heart  of  the  rose 
and  count  the  shades  in  the  mountain  torrent  as  it  ripples 
in  the  moonlight. 

Andy  spoke  but  little,  and  his  words  gave  no  reason 
for  his  return  to  his  native  country,  where  his  parents 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE  341 

lay  sleeping  in  the  shadows  of  the  eternal  hills,  and  where 
few  of  his  kith  and  kin  remained  to  bid  him  welcome. 
It  was  three  years  since  he  had  danced  on  the  grassy 
slopes  by  the  enchanted  lake,  and  when  he  went  to  Amer- 
ica he  said  as  little  as  usual;  but  that  he  had  a  motive, 
and  a  good  one,  for  his  departure,  everyone  was  certain. 
He  attached  himself  to  Philip  as  one  who  had  a  right,  and 
seemed  anxious  to  speak  to  him,  confidentially,  several 
times,  but  he  was  as  often  interrupted. 

"Ye  had  good  luck  in  America,"  said  Philip,  as  they 
descended  the  "boreen,"  the  little  private  road  that  seemed 
to  be  the  only  outlet  from  the  lake  set  like  a  jewel  in  the 
bosom  of  the  hills ;  "but  ye  don't  forget  the  'ould  dart.'  " 

"No,  no,"  said  Andy,  who  seemed  to  be  waking  from  a 
dream ;  "the  sight  of  the  spot  never  leaves  my  eyes." 

"Are  ye  goin'  back?"  asked  Philip. 

"It  depends,"  answered  Andy;  "it  depends  on  someone 
else." 

"Oh,  there's  a  woman  in  th'  case,  is  there?"  said  his 
friend,  laughing.  "Ye  never  told  us  anythin'  about  it." 

"No,  nor  her,"  answered  Andy,  gravely.  "I  didn't 
want  to  speak  till  I  had  a  foundation  for  my  presumption, 
or  the  shadow  of  a  home  to  offer  her." 

"Faith,  ye're  more  patient  than  I  am.  Spake  first,  an' 
get  th'  home  afther,  say  I,"  interrupted  Philip,  who  was  a 
rollicking  kind  of  an  Irishman.  "But  who  is  th'  lady? 
Is  it  any  harm  to  ask  ye?" 

"Can't  you  guess?"  said  his  friend,  in  surprise. 

There  was  no  time  for  more,  for  the  long,  narrow 
"boreen,"  fragrant  with  the  scent  of  hawthorne,  termi- 
nated in  a  low,  substantial  farmhouse,  surrounded  by  evi- 
dences of  prosperity  not  often  seen  in  that  part  of  the 


342       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

country.  Though  so  close  to  the  scene  of  the  festivity, 
it  bore  an  air  of  loneliness  and  isolation  that  gave  one  a 
very  poor  idea  of  the  owner's  estimate  of  the  virtue  of  hos- 
pitality, so  honored  in  the  rest  of  the  neighborhood.  There 
was  not  the  slightest  indication  of  a  bonfire,  and  only  a 
dim  light  in  the  front  windows  gave  any  evidence  of  life. 

"Old  McGowan's  place,"  said  the  returned  American. 
"How  natural  it  looks !  He's  as  rich  as  ever,  I  suppose?" 

"No,  but  twict  as  rich,  an'  twict  as  mane,  if  that  could 
be,"  was  the  reply. 

"Well,  what  are  we  waiting  here  for?  Surely  you 
don't  expect  him  to  go  to  the  dance  ?"  said  Andy. 

"No,  but  someone  belonging  to  him,  God  help  her! 
We'll  give  her  a  couple  of  hours'  fun  an'  bring  her  back 
safe  an'  sound,  an'  he'll  never  know  th'  difference.  Look 
at  th'  ould  misard  now,"  said  Philip,  unscrupulously  peep- 
ing through  the  window  where  the  light  shone.  "Be  all 
that's  holy,  he's  preparing  a  thrate  fer  himself !" 

This  report  brought  all  hands  to  the  spot,  and,  jostling 
and  laughing,  the  bevy  of  sports  took  their  stand  at  the 
narrow  window  and  passed  uncomplimentary  remarks 
about  the  eccentric  owner. 

"He's  afther  pluckin'  a  goose  fer  himself,  an'  throwin* 
it  into  th'  pot." 

"An'  th'  wife'll  never  get  a  taste  of  it,  ye  may  be  sure. 
She  isn't  here  at  all." 

"Sure,  don't  ye  know  she  has  to  go  to  bed  wid  th' 
chickens,  afther  a  supper  of  potatoes  an'  milk?" 

"An'  th'  workmen  have  to  sleep  at  home  lest  they  should 
wear  out  th'  sheets." 

A  burst  of  music  from  the  lake  reminded  the  loiterers 
that  time  was  passing. 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE  343 

"I  pity  th'  poor  girl  when  she  hears  that,  an'  nothin' 
bethune  her  an'  it  but  th'  walls  of  an  ould  loft !" 

"Much  she  gained  by  marryin'  an  ould  misard!  What 
good'll  his  money  do  her?  I'll  bet  he's  rackin'  his  brains 
fer  manes  to  will  everything  away  from  her  when  he 
dies." 

"He'll  outlive  her.  Sure,  he's  only  seventy-five,  an'  as 
sthrong  as  a  horse." 

"Well,  hurry  up!  If  ye're  goin'  to  ax  th'  ould  man's 
lave,  it's  time  ye  wor  doin'  it." 

"Ax  his  lave?  Eyah!  What  kind  of  a  fool  d'ye  take 
me  fer?  No,  I'll  ax  her  lave  an'  talk  to  her  at  th'  same 
time,  an'  he'll  never  hear  ony  what's  meant  fer  him,  fer 
he's  as  deaf  as  a  beetle." 

"No,  ye  talk  to  him  an'  I'll  talk  to  her,"  said  his  brother  ; 
"an'  if  he  sees  me  lips  movin',  ye  let  on  I'm  singin'  a 
song." 

"He's  puttin'  fresh  turf  undher  th'  pot,  an'  turnin'  th' 
potatoes  in  th'  ashes.  See  him  creepin'  round  in  his 
stockin'  feet,  layin'  th'  table  fer  himself.  It's  ony  fair  to 
him  to  ax  his  lave.  If  he  won't  give  it,  we  know  what 
to  do.  Yes,  ax  his  lave,"  said  another. 

"I  wondher  if  he'll  ax  us  to  supper?"  queried  one  of  the 
fellows  who  had  not  yet  spoken. 

A  burst  of  laughter  followed  this  venture. 

"He  might,  though,"  said  Pat.  "He's  always  very 
civil  to  th'  Fosthers." 

"Bekase  there's  so  many  of  us — seven  in  all — wid  a 
reputation,  to  say  th'  laste,  fer  a  bit  of  fun,  an'  livin'  quite 
neighborly  to  him.  Ony  fer  a  promise  I  gave  me  father 
last  night,  I'd  think  nothin'  of  takin'  him  out  an'  duckin' 
him  in  th'  pond,"  added  his  brother. 


344       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Well,  if  he  invites  us  to  sup  an'  lets  Mary  go  to  th' 
dance,  we'll  fergive  him  all  his  other  sins.  What  d'ye  say, 
boys?" 

"Certain,  certain,  we'll  fergive  him  th'  rest,"  said 
Philip,  as  the  door  openly  slowly,  releasing  mingled  odors 
of  goose  and  roasted  potatoes.  A  high  nightcap,  with  a 
tassel  on  the  end,  was  thrust  out  cautiously,  and  then  a 
face,  creased  with  lines  of  cunning  and  avarice,  followed. 
It  was  withdrawn  in  a  minute,  and  the  door  almost  shut 
on  the  hand  of  the  ringleader.  The  boys  were  too  quick 
for  the  old  man,  who,  seeing  his  disadvantage,  was  all 
civility. 

"God  save  all  here!"  said  Philip,  gravely,  entering  and 
taking  a  seat. 

"Amen!"  answered  the  old  man,  with  a  sigh.  "I  was 
just  goin'  to  bed,"  and  he  pulled  the  ashes  over  the  pota- 
toes to  conceal  them. 

"No  chance  fer  a  supper,  boys,"  said  Pat,  shaking  his 
head,  "an'  I'm  near  dead  wid  th'  hunger." 

"What  have  ye  in  th'  pot-oven  that  smells  so  appetizin', 
Misther  McGowan?"  asked  Philip,  with  much  politeness. 

"Eh?  Oh,  ah !"  returned  the  old  man,  in  various  tones 
of  affected  surprise  as  the  question  was  repeated  to  him 
three  different  times.  "It's  just  a  feedin'  fer  th'  pigs  I'm 
boilin'  agin  th'  morn,  so  as — a — to  be  ready." 

"Oh,  that's  it,"  said  Philip ;  and  then,  as  he  watched  the 
old  man  hovering  over  the  pot,  furtively  covering  it  close 
so  as  to  preclude  all  possibility  of  the  odor  escaping,  he 
said  to  the  boys,  "Small  chance  of  a  supper  to-night." 

"  It's  lovely  weather  fer  St.  John's  Eve ;  it's  a  wondher 
ye  an'  th'  misthress  are  not  out  footin'  it  among  th'  boys 
an'  girls,"  yelled  Pat  at  the  old  gentleman,  who,  in  stock- 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE  345 

ing  feet,  blue  flannel  vest,  and  corduroy  knee-breeches, 
was  yawning  and  giving  all  possible  hints — compatible 
with  safety — that  the  visitors'  sudden  withdrawal  would 
not  be  deplored.  This  remark  was  repeated  some  three 
or  four  times  before  the  old  man  realized  that  they  ex- 
pected him  to  attend  the  outdoor  festivities.  In  his  horror 
at  the  suggestion,  he  threw  up  his  long  arms  till  they 
hit  the  flitches  of  bacon  on  the  ceiling. 

"  Ye're  fond  of  yer  joke,  so  ye  are,  Pat ;  ye're  fond  of  yer 
joke.  Oh,  I'm  too  ould  to  dance,  an'  th'  misthress — hem — 
is  too  wise.  She  has  to  take  care  of  th'  child — hem — so 
she  has." 

"Mary  may  be  wise,  but  she  is  young.  Let  th'  poor 
girl  enjoy  herself  fer  a  couple  of  hours.  She's  my  cousin, 
ye  know,  an'  ye  know  that  I  think  enough  of  her  to  look 
afther  her  intherests.  Her  brothers  are  here,  too,  so 
nothin'  can  be  said " 

"But  what  'ud  become  of  th'  child?"  asked  the  old 
man,  in  great  alarm. 

"Bring  it  along.  There's  plenty  of  girls  to  take  care 
of  it  while  she's  dancin'." 

"Dancin',  dancin' !"  repeated  the  old  man,  aghast.  "Th' 
lake  may  be  all  right  fer  young  girls  an'  boys,  but  it's  no 
place  fer  a  marrit  woman.  No,  no;  I  couldn't  hear  of 
such  a  thing — hem — hem — no:  Mary  an'  th'  child  are 
sleepin'  above.  Don't  wake  them." 

This  conversation  coursed  along  with  the  usual  repeti- 
tions, yells  and  misunderstandings,  and  took  some  time, 
but  the  remainder  of  the  boys  were  not  idle.  Like  the 
music  which  the  fashionables  at  a  morning  concert  wel- 
come as  a  sufficient  cover  for  polite  conversation,  this  fusil- 
lade between  Pat  and  the  old  man  was  a  ruse  to  admit  of 
a  dialogue  between  the  gallery  and  the  floor  of  the  theater. 


346       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

The  huge  kitchen  of  the  old  farmhouse  was  long  and 
wide  and  old-fashioned.  McGowan  lived  as  his  father 
and  grandfather  lived,  while  they  were  scraping  together 
with  patience  and  economy  the  nest-egg  that,  under  the 
careful  nursing  of  the  ultra-penurious  grandson,  was  des- 
tined to  grow  to  a  goodly  size.  Across  the  middle  of  the 
kitchen  ran  a  loft,  reached  by  a  ladder.  The  ladder  was 
gone,  and  the  occupants  of  the  loft,  if  any,  were  prisoners 
for  the  night  at  least.  It  was  open  like  a  gallery,  and 
the  products  of  the  farm  were  much  in  evidence  in  front, 
while  the  back  was  usually  reserved  for  sleeping  apart- 
ments for  the  help. 

"Who's  sleepin'  there?"  asked  one  of  the  boys. 

"No  one  but  th'  wife.  He  locks  her  up,  or  takes  th' 
laddher  away,  which  is  th'  same  thing,  while  he  cooks 
fer  himself  —  bachelor  fashion  —  a  supper  fit  fer  a  Bishop, 
an'  never  offers  her  a  taste  of  it.  A  lot  she  gained  by 
marryin'  a  man  ould  enough  to  be  her  grandfather." 

"Arrah,  what  had  she  to  do  wid  it,  th'  innocent  crather? 
Didn't  her  father  an'  mother  make  th'  match,  glad  to  get 
th'  eldest  of  twelve  off  their  hands  to  such  a  rich  man,  no 
matther  how  ould  he  was  ?  Sure,  everyone  knows  that  she 
had  to  be  dragged  to  speak  to  him  at  all,  an'  ony  th' 
thought  of  bein'  able  to  help  her  parents  -  " 

"Help,  indeed!  Why,  they  wouldn't  get  any  benefit 
from  him  in  a  hundred  years  !  Poor  Mary  !  Her  sacri- 
fice was  all  fer  nothin'.  I  heard  it  said  that  if  she  had  th' 
manes,  she'd  have  run  away  to  America,  instead  of  mar- 


"Mary who?"  interrupted  the  visitor  to  the  Glen,  and 
Andy's  face  was  very  pale  and  set. 

"Mary  Brady,  of  course.     She's  marrit  to  him  nigh 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE  347 

onto  three  years,  an'  has  a  son  near  a  year  old.  Did  ye 
know  her  ?  Sure  ye  must.  She  was  th'  prettiest  girl  in  th' 
Glen  an'  th'  best  dancer." 

If  Andy  knew  he  made  no  sign.  He  wasn't  one  of  the 
talking  kind,  anyway,  and  the  happy-go-lucky  young 
fellows  around  him  were  too  busy  with  their  own  affairs 
to  notice  the  agony  of  the  quivering  face  or  the  darkening 
of  the  keen  blue  eyes.  This  information  was  given  in 
the  ordinary  tone  of  voice,  the  well-known  deafness  of  the 
"ould  misard"  rendering  such  a  course  perfectly  safe. 

"I'll  call  her,"  said  Philip,  "an'  make  a  bargain  wid  her. 
She's  sleepin'  probably  at  th'  back  of  th'  loft,  an'  we  can 
haul  her  out  through  th'  windy,  if  she's  willin',  an'  why 
wouldn't  she  be,  th'  darlin'?  Faith,  when  she  hears  th' 
throuble  we're  in  about  th'  championship,  she'll  be  more 
than  willin'.  Th'  ould  shananah'll  never  miss  her,  an'  we 
can  bring  her  back  to  th'  same  ould  loft — bad  cess  to  him 
fer  kapin'  her  there — before  th'  dew  is  brushed  off  th' 
clover,  none  th'  worse  but  rather  th'  betther  fer  a  chance 
to  dance  th'  grief  off  her  heart." 

And  now  commenced  a  drama  that  would  have  done 
honor  to  the  boards  of  the  "Frangais"  or  "Drury  Lane" 
and  brought  into  play  the  histrionic  talent  that  lies  latent 
in  every  Irish  heart.  It  delighted  the  young  fellows,  who 
were  related  more  or  less  to  the  fair  prisoner  in  the  loft, 
and  who  saw  a  chance  of  getting  even  with  her  jailer. 

"We'll  hide  th'  laddher  when  we  go,  where  it  will  take 
him  a  day  to  find  it,"  said  one. 

"Don't  look  up  when  ye're  talkin',  an'  he'll  think  ye're 
singin'  a  song,"  said  another. 

The  goose  was  now  emitting  an  odor  (juite  unmis- 
takable, though  the  old  man  had  cunningly  pushed  the 


348       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

blazing  sods  away  from  the  pot-oven  in  which  it  was 
roasting. 

"All  the  world's  a  stage,  and  men  and  women  merely 
actors."  The  old  farm  kitchen  was  a  stage,  and  every 
actor  was  a  star  in  his  line.  The  old  man  was  covering 
up  his  anxiety  for  their  departure  with  a  sickly  smile.  Ho 
had  a  holy  terror  of  the  "Foster  boys,"  his  wife's  cousins, 
and  dreaded  the  retaliation  that  speedily  followed  any 
discourtesy  on  his  part. 

"Fine  weather  fer  potatoes,"  shouted  Pat  to  his  host, 
and  added  to  his  brother,  in  a  lower  tone,  "Now  talk  to 
Mary,  an'  be  quick  about  it !" 

"Mary,  darlin',"  said  Philip,  with  his  eyes  on  the  dying 
embers,  "I  know  ye're  not  deaf."  A  skirl  of  the  pipes  was 
borne  by  the  breeze  through  the  low  casement  and  quick- 
ened the  pulses  of  all  present,  with  the  exception  of  the 
old  man. 

"I  hear  it  all,"  answered  a  sweet  voice  from  the  loft. 

"They're  comin'  up  finely,"  said  the  old  man. 

"'Tis  a  lonesome  bonfire  night  fer  ye  sittin'  up  there, 
but  we  came  to  change  all  that,"  said  Philip. 

"Ye'll  have  a  fine  crop  from  th'  far  meadow,"  added 
Pat. 

"It  is  lonesome,  but  I  must  get  used  to  it."  There  was 
a  sob  in  the  voice. 

"I'm  used  to  fine  crops  from  that  meadow,"  said  the 
old  man,  proudly,  "an',  though  I  say  it  that  shouldn't, 
there's  no  finer  crop  to  be  found  in  th'  whole  kingdom, 
Connemara  or  no  Connemara." 

"Ye're  cryin',  girl,  ye're  cryin',  an'  ye  can't  deny  it. 
What'll  I  do  wid  th'  ould  man?  I  don't  blame  him  fer 
wantin'  ye;  sure,  anybody  couldn't  blame  him  fer  that, 
but  I  blame  him  fer  makin'  ye  miserable." 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE  349 

"I'm  all  right — never  mind  me." 

"Just  say  th'  word,  an'  we'll  dip  him  in  th'  lake." 

"That's  a  fine  Jersey  ye  have,  Misther  McGowan.  It 
takes  a  load  of  grass  to  winther  yer  cattle,"  roared  Pat. 

"One  word  is  as  good  as  twenty,  Mary.  To  that  dance 
ye'll  go,  wid  his  consent  or  widout  it.  It  will  do  ye  good 
to  taste  th'  fresh  air,  an'  see  th'  boys  an'  girls.  We'll 
hoist  ye  through  th'  windy,  an'  hoist  ye  back  agin,  as  we 
did  two  years  ago."  This  from  Phil. 

."Ay,  it  takes  hay  to  winther  th'  stock,  but  they  pay  it 
back,  oh,  yes,  they  pay  it  back !  It  pays  to  take  care  of  th' 
cattle." 

"But  not  to  take  care  of  yer  wife,  ye  ould  dotard," 
muttered  Phil. 

"My  mother  was  angry  with  me  when  I  went  before. 
She'll  be  angry  again.  Don't  ask  me,  Philip,"  said  the 
voice  from  the  loft. 

"Oh,  what's  th'  good  of  havin'  so  much  money  if  ye 
can't  use  it?  Ye  could  build  a  bigger  house,  fer  in- 
stance  "  and  Pat  buttonholed  the  old  man. 

"What  was  good  enough  fer  me  father  is  good  enough 
fer  me,"  shouted  the  old  man,  testily,  "an*  me  money, 
young  man,  is  layin'  by  fer  me  son.  D'ye  hear,  young 
man?  It's  layin'  by  fer  me  son.  It's  layin'  in  th'  hands 
of  th'  Bishop  of  this  diocese.  I'll  give  me  son  to  th' 

Church.  He'll  be  Bishop  in  time,  an' "  The  old  man 

stopped  to  cough,  but  his  back  was  to  the  loft. 

"Yer  mother,  indeed.  What  harm  can  befall  ye  with 
brothers  an'  cousins  around?  This  miserable  ould  man 
they  made  ye  marry " 

"Oh,  I  hate  him !    I  hate  him !" 

"Me  son  will  be  Bishop;  there's  money  layin'  by  fer 


350       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

him,"  cried  the  old  man,  exultingly,  "an'  ye'll  live  to  see 
it,  an'  mebbe  I'll  live  to  see  it " 

"I've  come  fer  ye  to  dance  one  dance.  Th'  boys  an' 
girls  are  waitin',  an'  Fairholt  is  carryin'  away  our  prize 
if  ye  don't  come " 

"Don't  ask  me,  Phil " 

"I  will  ask  ye.  Ye  won't  refuse.  Ye  mustn't.  They're 
all  waitin'." 

"There's  money  in  th'  bank,  too,  fer  me  son.  In  th' 
Bishop's  hands  an'  th'  bank.  D'ye  hear?  In  th'  Bishop's 
hands  an'  th'  bank,  an'  me  boy  will  say  Mass  in  this  very 
town." 

"Come,  Mary.    Time  is  flyin'." 

"Don't  ask  me,  Phil.  I  want  to  go,  but  it  isn't  right. 
What  would  I  do  with  my  baby  ?" 

"Bring  him  along.  Sure,  there's  piles  of  girls  only  too 
glad  of  th'  chance  of  mindin'  him  fer  ye  while  ye're  Aootin' 
it;  besides,  there's  an  ould  friend  of  yers  waitin'  fer  a 
chance  to  foot  it  wid  ye — an  ould  friend  ye  haven't  seen 
fer  three  years — come  all  th'  way  from  America  to  see 
ye » 

"There's  no  boy  in  this  county  will  have  a  betther 
chance  than  me  boy.  Th'  McGowans  were  all  hard  an' 
honest,  an'  he'll  be  an  honest  an'  a  larned  man." 

"There's  no  raison  fer  him  to  be  hard,  fer  his  money 
is  made  to  hand  fer  him." 

"Look  over  an'  see  who  it  is.  Look,  now,  th'  ould 
man's  back  is  turned  to  ye.  Look  over,"  urged  Philip 
to  the  occupant  of  the  loft. 

"Yes,  I'll  live  to  see  me  boy  say  Mass  in  this  very 
chapel,"  yelled  the  old  man. 

"Look  over,  Mary,  look  over.  Surely  ye  wouldn't  re- 
fuse him " 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE  351 

"Long  to  wait,  will  I  ?  No,  sir.  I'm  only  seventy-five. 
Me  boy  is  a  year  old  now ;  he'll  be  ordained  at  twenty-one, 
an'  a  Bishop  at  twenty-five.  That  will  leave  me  a  hun- 
dhred,  an'  me  father  lived  to  be  a  hundhred  an'  ten,  an' 
he'd  lived  longer  if  he'd  taken  care  of  his  health." 

"Look  over  an'  see  who  it  is,  an'  I'm  sure  ye  won't 
refuse " 

"I'll  live  to  see  me  boy  say  Mass  right  here." 

"Look  over,  Mary,  look  over." 

It  was  a  very  pale  but  pretty  face  that  peeped  over  the 
farm  products  that  crowded  up  the  front  of  the  loft,  and 
pressed  close  against  the  satin  cheek  was  another  face, 
that  of  a  child,  the  subject  of  the  old  man's  raptures.  It 
was  asleep,  and  the  little  hands  were  clasped  in  a  peculiar 
manner.  Mary  McGowan,  nee  Brady,  might  be  light  of 
heel,  and  formerly  light  of  heart,  but  her  sense  of  the 
proprieties  was  of  the  heaviest.  Her  hands  were  trem- 
bling, and  when  she  saw  the  young  man  who  was  visiting 
from  America,  the  snow  that  covered  the  mountain-tops 
on  the  coldest  winter's  day  was  not  more  white  than  her 
cheeks. 

"Philip,  cousins,  and  neighbors  all,  I  thank  you,"  she 
said.  "You  mean  well,  but  I  cannot  accept  your  kind 
offer,  and  I'm  sure  the  girls  and  boys  will  excuse  and  for- 
give me  when  they  hear  the  reason  that  I — cannot  go. 
You  heard  him,  you  hear  him  talking  about  this  child 


"Yes,  there's  money  in  th'  Bishop's  hands  fer  me  gos- 
soon. I'll  make  a  priest  of  him.  He's  cut  out  fer  it. 
Sure,  he  has  his  little  hands  in  th'  form  of  prayer  from 
mornin'  till  night,"  repeated  the  old  man,  beside  himself 
with  enthusiasm.  "Come,  boys,  an'  see  him  in  his  cradle, 
prayin'  to  himself,  th'  darlin' " 

23 


352  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"You  hear  him,"  said  Mary.  "Good-night,  boys,  and 
God  bless  you.  I  will  never  disgrace  my  boy  in  years  to 
come  by  forgetting  for  a  moment  that  I  am  his  mother 
and  neglecting  my  duty  to  him  and  God,  who  is  plainly 
calling  him " 

"I'll  live  to  hear  him  say  Mass,  plaze  th'  Lord,  an' 
aftherwards  become  Bishop,"  repeated  the  old  man,  all 
unconscious  of  the  presence  of  his  wife. 

"And  I  hope,  when  he  is  offering  the  Holy  Sacrifice  of 
the  Mass,  that  I  can  kneel  there  with  a  clean  conscience, 
and  feel  that  I  am  worthy  to  be  his  mother — that  I  have 
nothing  to  reproach  myself  with.  Good-night,  boys,  good- 
night," and  Mary  slid  back  behind  the  stacks  of  onions. 

"She's  like  a  ghost — th'  ghost  of  herself,"  said  one 
of  the  boys,  while  the  others  were  dumb  with  disappoint- 
ment. 

The  old  man's  nightcap  had  fallen  off  in  the  ecstasy 
of  his  desires  for  the  son  who  had  come  to  him  so  late  in 
life.  His  grizzled  gray  hair  fell  around  his  withered 
neck,  and  his  huge  form,  usually  bent  in  labor  or  medita- 
tion, now  towered  among  the  rafters.  It  was  but  his 
selfishness  in  a  new  form.  His  son — was  he  not  a  part 
of  himself,  and  was  not  all  this  saving  and  working  for 
this  son  as  a  part  of  himself  that  would  live  when  his 
worn-out  frame  would  lie  under  the  gorse  and  the 
heather  ?  But,  oh,  the  pity  of  it,  that  this  innocent  young 
girl  should  be  his  wife,  whose  life  was  a  daily  sacrifice, 
and  whose  relinquishing  of  the  one  pleasure  in  life  that  her 
soul  coveted,  for  the  sake  of  that  son,  was  not  deemed 
worthy  of  consideration  by  the  husband  thrust  upon  her ! 
But  the  angels  were  recording  the  beautiful  act,  and  even 
the  "boys,"  whose  wits  in  such  matters  were  usually  of 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE  353 

the  dimmest,  saw  clearer  than  even  the  young  mother 
wished  them  to,  and  while  angry  with  her,  respected  her 
none  the  less. 

"Th'  sight  of  Andy  has  disturbed  her,"  muttered  Philip 
to  his  brother.  "Let  her  alone.  I  remember  now  they 
had  a  likin'  fer  one  another,  though  they  didn't  make 
much  show  of  it." 

"He  isn't  worth  a  herrin'  if  he  doesn't  run  away  wid 
her,"  answered  Pat,  in  the  same  whisper.  "They  say  he's 
made  lots  of  money  out  in  th'  mines.  He  went  fer  it,  an' 
he  was  lucky  enough  to  get  it." 

"He  knows  betther  than  to  ax  her,  fer  he  knows  she 
wouldn't  go  wid  him,  an'  if  she  wanted  to  go,  I  wouldn't 
let  her,"  added  Phil,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  was  tenacious 
of  the  honor  of  his  house. 

The  old  man's  head  was  still  among  the  clouds,  and  he 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  very  existence  of  his  visitors, 
and  what  was  more  remarkable  yet,  his  luxurious  supper, 
the  fragrance  of  which  it  was  now  impossible  to  conceal. 
The  embers,  partly  extinguished  by  the  old  man,  had 
revived  and  were  slowly  and  with  the  proper  amount  of 
heat,  baking  the  coveted  goose  to  a  delicious  brown.  They 
couldn't  see  it,  but  as  connoisseurs  in  all  kinds  of  illicit 
and  bachelor  festivities,  each  and  all  were  entitled  to  judge 
of  the  work  of  a  pot-oven  in  similar  circumstances. 

At  a  wink  from  Pat,  another  cousin,  turning  the  tem- 
porary abstraction  of  the  old  miser  to  immediate  account, 
deftly  uncovered  the  potatoes  and  dropped  them,  screech- 
ing hot,  into  his  huge  pockets.  Pat,  in  the  meanwhile, 
had  not  been  idle.  He  had  been  playing — idly  playing,  to 
all  appearances — with  the  thongs  of  the  old  gentleman's 
huge  farming  shoes,  or  brogues,  that  lay  at  the  side  of  the 


354       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

settle  where  he  had  thrown  them  while  getting  supper. 
A  burst  of  music  from  the  scene  of  festivity  recalled  the 
young  men  to  their  senses,  and  they  arose  to  go.  The 
old  man,  too,  aroused  himself,  and  watched  their  prepa- 
rations for  departure  with  hypocritical  sorrow  and  inward 
delight,  which  was  augmented  by  the  smell  of  the  cook- 
ing. 

"He  won't  have  all  th'  satisfaction — th'  girl  an'  th' 
goose,"  said  Pat,  as  he  was  passing  out.  "Here  goes  fer 
th'  goose,"  and  lifting  the  cover  of  the  pot,  he  quickly  and 
carefully  removed  the  big  bird,  substituting  the  brogues, 
which  he  had  tied  together  by  the  thongs,  and  carefully 
fitted  the  cover  on  again.  It  took  him  but  a  second  to 
hide  the  goose  under  the  tails  of  his  capacious  cote-a- 
more,  keeping  his  face  to  the  old  man  the  whole  time. 

"Good-night,  an'  good  appetite  to  ye,"  he  yelled  as  he 
passed  him,  and  his  host  nodded  his  thanks. 

"Good-night,  boys,  good-night." 

The  door  was  locked  and  bolted  after  them,  but  it  did 
not  prevent  the  fellow  with  the  goose  from  taking  his 
stand  at  the  window  and  making  his  usual  report. 

"Th'  ould  misard  is  muttherin'  to  himself,  an'  he's  as 
mad  as  a  hatther  at  bein'  kep'  so  long  from  his  supper. 
See,  he's  layin'  th'  table  agin.  Now  he's  gettin'  th'  flesh- 
hook  to  lift  out  th'  goose.  Ha !  He  can't  make  it  work. 
He  thinks  th'  goose  must  be  tough.  He  makes  another 
thry.  Ha,  ha !  Th'  fork  has  caught  in  th'  thongs  of  th' 
brogues.  He  has  them !  He  recognizes  them !  Come 
away,  boys !  It  isn't  right  to  inthrude  on  another  person's 
throuble ;  besides,  I'm  hungry  fer  me  supper." 

Another  burst  of  music  from  the  lake  decided  the  ques- 
tion, and  when  the  door  was  released  from  its  fastenings 


ST.  JOHN'S  EVE  355 

and  a  nightcapped  head  ornamented  the  doorway  a  second 
time,  there  was  nothing  in  sight  but  some  flying  heels,  at 
which  the  infuriated  owner  of  the  nightcap  shook  his  fists 
in  impotent  fury. 


356  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 


HANNIBAL  FIPPS  M'CONKEY, 

Hannibal  Fipps  McConkey  was  just  five  feet  nothing — 
that  is,  by  physical  measurement;  mentally  his  head 
reached  the  clouds,  and  measuring-tapes  were  totally 
inadequate.  His  mind  was  always  among  the  heroes 
of  romance.  He  knew  the  name  of  every  warrior  from 
the  time  of  his  illustrious  namesake  down  to  the  present 
day,  and  could  recount  all  their  valiant  deeds.  He  ex- 
celled in  chronicles  of  battles,  sieges,  and  hair-breadth 
escapes,  of  hand-to-hand  encounters,  famous  tournaments, 
and  marvelous  victories. 

In  antithesis  to  his  height  was  his  voice.  Its  depth, 
resonance,  and  immense  volume  won  for  him  the  title  of 
"Little  Thunder."  His  size,  or  rather  his  want  of  it,  had 
been  a  source  of  much  annoyance  to  his  mother,  when  he 
was  old  enough  to  be  compared  to  other  boys.  The  time 
came  afterward,  however,  when  she  was  thankful  for 
the  very  deficiency  with  which  she  had  at  first  found 
fault,  because  it  was  a  bar  to  the  military  life  he  coveted, 
and  he  was  thus  reserved  as  a  support  to  her  old  age ;  and 
to  his  credit  be  it  recorded,  that  while  he  was  often  irri- 
table and  overbearing  with  outsiders,  he  was  kindness 
itself  to  her. 

Hannibal  was  by  instinct  a  soldier.  He  was  born  with 
a  military  caul,  according  to  the  midwife,  but  alas !  nature, 
which  had  been  so  generous  with  the  spirit,  had  denied 


HANNIBAL  FIPPS  McCONKEY  357 

him  the  inches.  He  ran  away  many  times  and  laid  siege 
to  the  heart  of  every  recruiting  sergeant  stationed  peri- 
odically between  Inishboffin  and  Leenane,  and  between 
Leenane  and  Clogmore,  but  invariably  returned  without 
the  uniform  with  which  he  hoped  to  melt  the  heart  of 
every  maiden  between  eighteen  and  eighty  in  the  villages 
along  the  coast. 

At  the  first  sound  of  his  voice,  the  sergeants,  one  and 
all,  evidenced  the  keenest  interest.  They  delighted  in  big 
men,  and  looked  around  eagerly  for  the  possessor,  but 
when  they  discovered  that  the  tremendous  tones  belonged 
to  a  man  so  much  under  the  regulation  size,  their  smiles 
of  amusement  so  exasperated  him  that  he  longed  to 
start  his  military  career  there  and  then  by  breaking  their 
heads. 

His  mother  was  puzzled  what  to  do  twith  her  diminu- 
tive son,  to  whom  every  avenue  of  labor  seemed  shut. 
By  the  midwife's  asseverations,  she  had  been  induced  to 
name  him  after  a  famous  military  hero,  and  now  by  the 
united  decision  of  her  friends  and  relatives,  she  was  fain 
to  believe  that  he  was  decreed  to  be  a  tailor,  and  to  a 
tailor  he  was  immediately  apprenticed.  Hannibal  Fipps 
McConkey  was  a  very  manly  little  fellow,  and  though  the 
first  day  he  sat  cross-legged  on  a  board  was  a  very  bitter 
one  to  him,  still  he  realized  that  his  old  mother — now 
that  his  big  brothers  had  gone  off  for  themselves — could 
not  live  on  valor  alone,  but  he  never  really  gave  up  his 
military  aspirations. 

It  was  hard  for  a  born  leader  of  men,  and  a  natural 
strategist,  to  have  to  sit  all  day  and  stitch  by  hand,  and 
think  how  he  could  execute  a  right  flank  or  a  left  flank 
movement,  or  form  his  men  into  a  hollow  square,  or 


358       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

charge  a  hill  with  flying  colors,  when  he  was  merely 
charging  up  a  seam  for  a  six-foot  mountaineer,  who 
cared  not  so  much  for  war  as  for  fishing.  It  was  harder 
still  to  measure  one  of  his  stupid  customers,  and  to  find 
that  he  had,  in  plenty  and  to  spare,  the  inches  that  he 
himself  lacked. 

When  the  workday  was  over,  how  quickly  Hannibal 
Fipps  McConkey  jumped  from  the  board  and  resumed 
his  military  life!  While  his  mother  was  cooking  the 
simple  supper,  he  would  go  through  his  drill — first  his 
paces,  next  his  sword  exercise.  Then  he  proceeded  to 
form  his  squares  and  put  his  soldiers  through  their 
maneuvers,  his  soldiers  being  blocks  of  turf,  with  stout 
saplings  for  officers.  His  mother — who  believed  in  him 
devoutly,  for  had  not  the  midwife  told  her? — he  con- 
stituted his  reviewing  staff,  or  his  general  on  field  days — 
subject  to  his  authority — and  he  was  always  sure  of  her 
approval. 

When  he  grew  tired  of  active  military  work,  he  turned 
to  his  studies,  but  they  were  always  on  the  same  sub- 
ject. His  library  consisted  of  "The  Life  of  Napoleon, 
The  Hero  of  Seven  Wars,"  and  two  other  volumes,  from 
which  the  title  pages  had  been  worn  away  by  constant 
use.  They  were  all  about  warriors,  and  it  was  edifying 
to  see  him  on  a  cold  winter's  night  reading  their  gory  ad- 
ventures to  his  mother,  while  she  knitted,  or  smoked  her 
evening  pipe,  and  to  see  her  deep  appreciation  of  them 
all. 

"Wondherful,  wondherful!"  Hannibal  would  exclaim, 
looking  up  from  his  book  with  shining  eyes. 

"Wondherful,  wondherful !"  his  mother  would  repeat, 
knitting  away. 


HANNIBAL  FIPPS  McCONKEY  359 

"Fightin'  his  way  through  th'  Pass  wid  seventeen 
men,  agin  a  whole  army !" 

"Fightin'  his  way  through  a  whole  army,"  repeated 
his  admiring  mother. 

"For  seventeen  hours  they  fought,  steadily  gainin'," 
added  Hannibal. 

"For  seventeen  hours  they  fought,"  came  from  his 
mother,  counting  her  stitches. 

"And  then  slept  on  their  arms,  ready  at  a  moment's 
notice  to  resume  hostilities." 

"  Poor  cratures !  how  uncomfortable,  an'  mebbe  wid- 
out  a  bit  or  a  sup,"  and  his  mother  would  look  up  com- 
passionately. 

"Mother,  what  are  ye  sayin'?"  the  young  man  would 
ask,  sternly.  "D'ye  think  that  men  feel  hunger  an'  thirst 
when  they're  fightin'  for  glory  ?" 

"A'  course  not,  a'  course  not,"  acknowledged  his 
mother,  soothingly. 

When  reading  the  Bible  or  prayer-book,  which  he  did 
at  least  every  Sunday,  he  always  selected  the  warlike 
passages,  and  recited  them  like  a  proclamation  of  war 
and  a  challenge  to  the  enemy.  He  delighted  particularly 
in  the  chronicles  of  David,  from  his  extermination  of 
Goliath  to  his  last  battle  with  his  son  Absalom.  In  spite 
of  this  military  spirit,  Hannibal  kept  himself  well  in  abey- 
ance and  interfered  with  nobody,  unless  driven  to  it  by 
the  sneers  and  gibes  of  his  neighbors,  who  laughed  his 
aspirations  to  scorn  and  delighted  in  raising  him  to  the 
point  of  frenzy. 

In  spite  of  his  responsibilities,  the  desire  to  engage  in 
combat  often  got  the  better  of  his  prudence,  and  he  would 
swing  himself  off  his  board  and  challenge  the  whole  of 


360       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

his  tormentors  at  once.  Not  a  soul  would  take  up  the 
gauntlet  "bekase  it  'ud  be  takin'  a  mane  advantage  of 
th'  little  crature,"  a  remark  that  always  had  the  effect  of 
driving  the  tailor  almost  to  desperation. 

He  consoled  himself,  however,  by  carrying  his  needle 
like  a  lance,  charging  at  the  coat  under  construction  as 
if  it  covered  the  body  of  an  enemy,  and  ending  by  execut- 
ing a  war-dance  on  the  board. 

Philosophers  say  we  grow  like  our  desires,  and  from 
dwelling  on  the  actions  of  great  commanders,  Hannibal 
became  fierce,  stern  and  dictatorial  in  his  dealings  with 
everyone  but  his  mother.  Perhaps  his  lofty  thoughts 
had  an  effect  on  his  hair.  It  began  to  rise  slowly  and 
finally  stood  erect,  thus  adding  three  inches  to  his  height. 

A  witty  acquaintance  once  facetiously  advised  him  to 
stretch  himself  on  a  board  for  two  hours  each  day — a 
sure  way  to  lengthen  the  joints — relating  many  instances 
of  the  wonders  it  had  worked  for  others  who  were  also 
low  of  stature. 

Hannibal  procured  an  old  door  and  began  the  treat- 
ment, just  in  time  to  receive  a  volley  of  eggs  and  decay- 
ing vegetables,  which  the  wits  had  been  collecting  for  a 
week,  and  which  were  thrown  with  unusual  force  down 
the  wide  chimney.  He  accordingly  discontinued  this 
course  to  commence  another,  ending  just  as  disastrously, 
and  so  Hannibal's  youth  and  early  manhood  passed  in 
futile  attempts  to  conquer  the  obstacles  that  stood  in  the 
way  of  a  military  life,  while  necessity  was  making  him  an 
excellent  tailor.  It  was  this  reputation  for  doing  the 
best  work  that  caused  him  to  receive  a  summons  from  the 
officers  of  a  regiment  stationed  in  an  adjoining  town, 
who,  finding  there  was  better  society  in  the  neighbor- 


HANNIBAL  FIPPS  McCONKEY  361 

hood  than  they  expected,  and  receiving  invitations  to 
a  ball  from  the  native  gentry,  resolved  to  make  some 
alterations  in  their  garments. 

Hannibal  was  delighted.  These  military  men  had  heard 
of  his  genius  and  wished  to  honor  him.  Hastily  dressing 
himself  in  his  best,  he  threw  out  his  shoulders  and  de- 
parted, the  hero  of  an  admiring  neighborhood.  The  wit 
who  brought  the  message  carefully  eliminated  the  busi- 
ness end  of  it,  thus  letting  the  little  tailor  draw  his  own 
conclusions,  but  surreptitiously  dropped  a  pair  of  scis- 
sors, a  skein  of  thread,  and  a  "housewife,"  or  needle-case, 
into  his  pocket. 

When  Hannibal  reached  the  barracks,  the  sentinel,  who 
was  expecting  a  tailor,  saw  the  scissors  sticking  out  and 
passed  him  with  a  merry  wink,  and  the  orderly,  who  con- 
sidered him  as  the  ninth  part  of  a  man,  looked  him  over 
superciliously  and  brought  him  to  his  colonel  s  quarters, 
for  so  his  orders  ran. 

The  colonel  was  busy  chatting  with  some  of  his  brother 
officers  and  suffered  his  visitor  to  remain  unnoticed  for 
a  minute.  Turning  to  him  after  he  had  concluded  his 
remarks  and  seeing  the  scissors  in  evidence,  he  said,  "Ah, 
you're  just  the  man  I  wished  to  see." 

The  colonel  was  thinking  of  his  ill-fitting  coat,  while 
Hannibal's  conclusion  was  that  the  colonel  wished  to  con- 
sult him  on  military  affairs. 

"He  has  heard  of  me,"  thought  Hannibal,  "but  he  has 
deuced  bad  manners." 

The  military  men  resumed  their  conversation,  com- 
pletely ignoring  our  hero,  who  was  raging.  Though  the 
colonel  forgot  to  introduce  him,  those  military  men  should 
have  recognized  a  kindred  spirit.  They  recognized  noth- 
ing, but  talked  away.  It  was  too  much. 


362  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Which  of  ye  sent  for  me?"  cried  the  tailor. 

At  the  sound  of  the  tremendous  tones,  all  looked  around 
quickly  and  in  great  surprise.  They  had  not  noticed  him 
before. 

"Which  of  ye  sent  for  me?"  he  demanded  again. 

The  question,  uttered  with  such  loud  imperiousness, 
came  from  the  little  tailor.  Used  to  the  servility  of  the 

usual  tradesman,  the  officers  of  Her  Majesty's th 

Regiment  were  puzzled  how  to  take  this  new  departure. 
The  need  of  the  alterations  alone  kept  them  from  throw- 
ing the  irreverent  intruder  out  of  the  window. 

"I  sent  for  you,  my  man,"  answered  the  colonel,  "be- 
cause I  heard  a  good  word  of  you."  Hannibal  drew  him- 
self up.  "I  want  you  to  look  over  my  clothes.  The  last 
suit  has  a  stupid  fit." 

"And  I,"  "And  I,"  "And  I,"  "And  I,"  "And  I,"  came 
from  all  sides  of  the  room. 

"I'm  glad  you  came  ready  for  work,"  resumed  the  colo- 
nel, indicating  the  scissors  that  were  sticking  out  of  the 
visitor's  pocket,  "for  I  am  in  a  deuce  of  a  hurry." 

The  secret  was  all  out  now.  The  tailor  looked  ruefully 
at  the  evidence  of  his  trade  that  was  pushing  itself  into 
polite  society.  His  pride  met  with  a  terrible  fall.  Yes, 
there  were  the  scissors,  sure  enough,  and  business  was 
business.  Under  the  current  of  Hannibal's  romance  lay  a 
thick  stratum  of  common  sense.  With  a  sigh  he  recog- 
nized the  necessity  of  action.  He  was  to  start  with  the 
colonel's  suit,  and  he  was  to  do  his  work  then  and  there, 
for  the  ball  was  coming  off  in  two  days,  and  his  home 
was  at  a  considerable  distance.  A  room  was  immediately 
set  aside  for  his  use,  and  for  two  whole  days  he  was  to 
be  an  inmate  of  a  military  station  and  the  companion  of 


HANNIBAL  FIPPS  McCONKEY  363 

military  men.  The  ambition  of  his  life  was  achieved,  but 
in  what  way? 

Hannibal  was  in  a  savage  mood.  He  never  replied  to 
the  salutations  of  the  orderly,  who  provided  him  with  a 
"goose"  and  a  board  which  were  in  stock  for  the  use  of 
the  military  tailor.  The  colonel  was  a  man  of  wide  ex- 
perience and  mature  age.  While  looking  at  the  tailor  as 
an  oddity,  he  recognized  his  usefulness  and  did  nothing  to 
raise  a  storm  that  was  ready  to  burst  and  only  required  a 
touch. 

The  colonel  was  very  pleased  with  the  alterations,  and 
now  came  the  "callow  fledglings,"  as  Hannibal  inwardly 
styled  them,  who  knew  more  about  dancing  than  they 
knew  about  warfare.  He  was  obliged  to  stand  on  a  chair 
to  fit  the  coats,  and  that  angered  him  a  great  deal ;  then 
they  often  obliged  him  to  wait  while  they  finished  a  story, 
as  if  he  were  an  automaton,  or,  as  Hannibal  expressed  it, 
a  "tobacco-sign,"  and  that  angered  him  more. 

He  cursed  aloud  the  clumsiness  of  the  army  tailor  for 
turning  out  "such  fits,"  and  the  young  officers  stopped 
their  narratives  for  a  moment  to  regard  him  with  curi- 
osity. To  raise  his  voice  in  their  presence  was  presump- 
tion indeed. 

In  a  minute  the  narrator  resumed  his  account  of  an 
engagement  which  had  taken  place  in  India  in  which 
some  of  their  friends  were  badly  worsted. 

"It  was  a  d — d  unfortunate  and  unforeseen  circum- 
stance," added  the  young  officer. 

"Unfortunate,  but  not  unforeseen,  except  by  a  fool," 
chimed  in  the  tailor,  who  was  busy  basting  a  seam. 

Had  a  thunderbolt  fallen  in  their  midst,  more  surprise 
could  not  have  been  felt  or  expressed  in  the  haughty 


364  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

glances  turned  to  bear  on  him.  One  officer  looked  at  him 
through  his  monocle  with  the  expression  of  an  entomolo- 
gist who  has  discovered  a  new  insect. 

"And  you,  sir — hem — you  would  have  acted  differently 
under  the  circumstances?"  said  the  man  with  the  mono- 
cle and  a  sneer,  "Mr.  What's-your-name ?" 

"Me  name  is  Hannibal  Fipps  McConkey,  at  your  ser- 
vice," said  the  tailor,  coolly,  "an'  me  tactics  in  th'  same 
encounther  would  be  different.  Oh,  yes,  very  different !" 

"Then  you  are  a  military  strategist,  Mr.  McConkey?" 
said  another,  with  an  amused  smile  at  the  rest. 

"An'  ye  may  say  that,"  returned  the  tailor,  without  los- 
ing a  stitch. 

"Indeed!     And  under  whom  have  you  studied?" 

"Undher  Hannibal  Fipps  McConkey,  an'  a  betther  in- 
sthructer  I'd  like  to  see,"  replied  the  tailor. 

"Meaning  yourself?" 

"Meanin'  meself,"  said  the  tailor,  applying  the  "goose" 
with  a  flourish  to  a  new  shoulder  seam. 

"Then  under  the  same  circumstances  you  would 
have ?" 

"I  would  have  sent  round  a  body  of  throops  to  take 
up  a  sthrong  position  in  th'  rear.  I'd  make  them  me 
ironin'  board,  an'  th'  ones  remainin'  wid  me  'ud  be  me 
goose.  I'd  keep  quiet  an'  let  th'  enemy  come  on.  Then 
I'd  dhrop  th'  goose  on  th'  board,  an'  God  help  them  that 
lay  between.  There  wouldn't  be  much  left  of  them  when 
we  got  through,"  and  the  little  man  made  a  dash  at  the 
seam  with  the  "goose"  and  flattened  it  out  completely. 

The  thunder  of  the  tailor's  voice  and  the  clatter  of  the 
iron  attracted  the  attention  of  the  colonel,  who  looked  in 
and  said : 


HANNIBAL  FIPPS  McCONKEY  365 

"Bravo!  But,"  he  continued,  laughing,  "suppose  the 
enemy  saw  through  your  maneuvers?" 

"A  thrue  soldier  never  gives  them  time,"  answered  the 
tailor,  quickly.  "When  he's  fightin'  in  th'  enemy's  coun- 
thry,  he's  at  a  disadvantage,  an'  there's  where  th'  strategy 
comes  in.  He'd  cut  off  a  portion  of  th'  enemy,  an'  at- 
tack him  wid  his  full  force  before  they  could  be  rein- 
forced. That'll  sthrike  terror  into  th'  hearts  of  those 
who  live  to  tell  it,  an'  wanst  ye  succeed  in  inthroducin'  a 
state  of  narvousness  among  th'  men — yers  or  yer  enemy's 
— wanst  let  them  see  that  they're  defendin'  themselves, 
not  attackin',  th'  hearts  are  broken  in  th'  poor  fellows,  an' 
they'll  go  undher;  yes,  yes,  they'll  go  undher,  an'  that's 
what  th'  officers  did  who  led  that  engagement.  They 
broke  th'  hearts  in  th'  poor  men — not  th'  enemy's  men, 
but  their  own,  more's  th'  pity — by  their  delay  an'  shilly- 
shallyin',  an'  lost  all.  Oh,  I  wouldn't  give  a  thraneen  for 
a  field  of  such  officers,  no,  indeed !" 

The  officers  did  not  laugh  this  time,  for  the  men  the 
tailor  so  dared  to  criticise  were  some  of  their  own 
friends.  They  regarded  the  exponent  of  military  tactics 
with  an  inscrutable  air.  To  defend  their  absent  friends 
from  the  barbed  tongue  of  the  little  tailor  was  admitting 
that  the  tailor  was  on  an  equality  with  them.  The 
colonel,  meanwhile,  treated  the  whole  affair  as  a  joke. 

"What  methods  have  you  studied,  Mr.  McConkey?" 
he  inquired,  politely. 

"I  have  studied  th'  ancient  an'  modhern  methods  an' 
found  them  to  differ  very  little,  except  in  their  progress- 
ive weapons  of  warfare,  an'  th'  recent  ability  to  get  th' 
formation  of  th'  enemy's  movements.  Of  course,  th' 
enemy  has  th'  same  chance,  so  that  should  be  allowed  for. 


366  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

A  commander  should  be  be  nature  a  strategist,  an'  if  he 
isn't,  he  should  stay  at  home  an'  let  a  betther  man  take 
his  place." 

"I  wonder,  with  your  military  taste,  that  you  choose 
so  peaceful  a  calling,"  said  a  subaltern,  with  a  sneer. 

"I  didn't  choose.  Me  mother  did  that  for  me — afther 
I  had  thried  everything  else.  Ye  see,"  continued  the 
tailor,  "th'  generality  of  th'  worl'  judges  a  man  from  th' 
outside,"  and  he  looked  askance  at  the  young  giant  who 
still  retained  his  monocle.  "  Bekase  a  man's  legs  are  long, 
it  doesn't  follow  that  his  brains  or  his  courage  correspond 
wid  them,  no  more  than  th'  man  who  sticks  a  lump  of 
glass  in  his  eye  sees  betther  than  th'  man  who  uses  th' 
eye  that  God  gave  him  widout  any  furniture  thrown  in. 
It's  a  great  pity  entirely  that  a  man's  courage  can't  be 
gauged  when  they  are  measuring  him  for  a  uniform,  an* 
we  wouldn't  have  so  many  officers  hidin'  behind  threes  at 
th'  first  fire  of  th'  enemy,  faith  we  wouldn't." 

The  subaltern  reddened  before  he  turned  contemptu- 
ously away,  but  not  too  quickly  to  catch  the  furtive 
glances  thrown  in  his  direction  by  his  brother  officers, 
who  were  divided  in  their  inclination  to  laugh  at  the  lit- 
tle tailor's  perspicacity,  or  throw  him  out  of  the  window. 
His  arrow  had  flown  home  and  they  blamed  themselves 
for  entering  into  conversation  with  him  at  all. 

Unfortunately  for  himself,  the  young  fellow  in  whom 
the  stray  arrow  rankled  undertook  to  hide  his  wound  by 
turning  the  man  of  the  needle  into  ridicule ;  but  his  gauge, 
too,  had  fallen  short,  for  the  tailor  was  as  impervious  to 
fear  as  his  own  rocky  mountains,  and  he  was  as  swift  at 
repartee  as  they  were  in  echoing  the  song  of  the  black- 
bird, or  the  clash  of  an  overcharged  cloud. 


HANNIBAL  FIPPS  McCONKEY  367 

"I  think,  Mr.  Tailor "  he  began. 

"Me  name  is  Hannibal  Fipps  McConkey,  an'  I'm  a 
tailor  only  be  thrade,  not  be  nature,"  replied  the  little 
man,  quickly. 

"Oh,  we  are  to  understand  that  you  are  by  nature  a 
military  man,  a  strategist,  a  leader,  a  commander " 

"Correct  for  wanst  in  yer  life !"  roared  the  tailor,  "sup- 
posin'  ye  never  were  right  before." 

It  was  now  the  subaltern's  turn  to  resume  his  place 
for  the  last  trying-on  of  the  altered  coat.  The  tailor 
mounted  the  chair  to  put  himself  on  a  level  with  his 
customer,  and  the  contrast  was  amusing  enough  to  draw 
a  smile  from  the  well-bred  colonel,  who  hastened  to  say : 

"If  I  had  my  way,  McConkey,  the  regulations  would 
be  changed  for  your  case  at  least." 

"It  wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea  for  the  tailor  to  call  at  the 
war  office  and  insist  on  being  measured  by  his  imagina- 
tion," sneered  the  sub. 

"An'  let  ye  call  at  a  tailor's  an'  be  measured  be  yer 
reality!"  shouted  Hannibal.  "Ye'd  make  a  fine  model — 
to  hang  military  coats  on,"  and  he  gave  him  a  jab  with 
the  scissors  as  he  cut  away  at  the  neck. 

"I'm  afraid  McConkey  would  make  a  troublesome 
member  of  the  rank  and  file,"  joined  in  another  young 
sub,  who  seemed  bent  on  his  own  destruction. 

"Thunder  an'  turf!"  roared  the  tailor,  now  beside  him- 
self; "who  said  I  would  go  into  th'  rank  an'  file?  I  wasn't 
born  for  th'  rank  an'  file.  I  was  born  for  a  lader." 

"An  excellent  leader !"  added  the  fellow  with  the  mono- 
cle. "The  idea  is  worthy  of  consideration.  He  could  be 
carried  around  in  the  skirmisher's  pocket,  and  be  quite 
invisible  to  the  enemy." 

24 


368       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"That  same  would  be  betther  than  lookin'  for  a  three 
to  hide  behind,  while  tli'  rank  an'  file  was  doin'  yer  work," 
roared  the  tailor. 

The  laughter  that  had  been  long  and  loud  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  tailor,  died  away  in  a  silence  that  could  be 
felt. 

"Satisfaction!"  roared  the  tailor,  "satisfaction  at 
wanst;  swords  or  pistols;  bayonets  or  fists;  time,  now; 
place,  here!"  So  saying,  he — being  on  a  level  with  his 
tormentor — pulled  his  nose,  slapped  his  face,  and,  jump- 
ing from  the  chair  to  the  table,  threw  down  his  hat  and 
danced  on  it  in  the  ecstasy  of  his  fury. 

The  subaltern  was  livid — a  public  insult  from  such  a 
source — an  insult  from  a  tradesman,  a  tailor,  and  a  chal- 
lenge that  could  not  be  taken  up!  The  colonel,  now 
grave  and  stern,  rang  for  the  orderly. 

"Take  this  man  out,"  he  said.  "Take  him  out  and 
keep  him  out.  Send  for  another  tailor  at  once." 

"Satisfaction!"  roared  the  tailor;  "satisfaction!  Yer 
choice  of  weapons ;  th'  time,  now ;  th'  place,  here !" 

As  the  tailor  refused  to  leave  and  the  second  command 
from  the  colonel  was  imperative,  the  undignified  spectacle 
of  Hannibal  Fipps  McConkey  being  carried  out  by  the 
band  of  his  inexpressibles,  wriggling,  swearing,  and  chal- 
lenging, was  accordingly  witnessed  by  a  yard  full  of  sol- 
diers' wives,  who  were  busy  washing  the  clothes  of  the 
regiment,  besides  a  score  or  so  of  hangers-on  who  were 
lounging  outside. 

No  further  punishment  was  meted  out  to  the  audacious 
tailor,  for  obvious  reasons.  It  would  give  undesired 
publicity  to  a  ridiculous  occurrence  and  a  laughter-loving 
people  another  chance  to  joke  the  military.  Meanwhile 
Hannibal  had  jumped  into  fame  at  one  bound. 


HANNIBAL  FIPPS  McCONKEY  369 

"Arrah,  did  ye  hear  th'  news  about  Hannibal?  He's 

f ought. th'  whole  regiment  at  C ,  devil  a  He  in  it — 

licked  them  all  from  th'  colonel  down,  an'  then  danced  a 
jig  on  th'  barrack  gate.  I  heard  it  from  them  that  saw 
th'  whole  thing,"  said  one. 

"Did  ye  ever  hear  th'  like?  He  broke  th'  colonel's 
sword  across  his  knee,  an'  challenged  any  one  of  them 
to  fight,"  said  another. 

These  stories  were  never  contradicted  by  Hannibal,  and 
he  was  accordingly  dubbed  "the  general,"  and  after 
awhile  refused  to  answer  to  any  other  title.  "General 
Hannibal  Fipps  McConkey,"  painted  in  gilt  letters,  swung 
over  his  shop  in  Ballynahinch,  and  his  men — for  the 
tailoring  business  had  prospered — were  never  idle.  Never- 
theless, as  time  wore  on,  the  tailor  fretted  more  and  more 
over  his  empty  title.  To  be  really  a  general  was  the  de- 
sire of  Hannibal's  heart — but  how? 

About  this  time  a  letter  bearing  the  Galway  postmark 
brought  the  news  of  a  small  legacy  from  a  bachelor  uncle, 
lately  deceased.  He  left  Hannibal  a  store  and  a  hundred 
pounds  in  ready  cash,  all  because  of  the  good  account  he 
had  heard  of  his  kindness  to  his  mother. 

Hannibal  had  never  been  from  home  before,  but  he 
proposed  to  see  the  sights  and  claim  his  property  at  the 
same  time.  Never  did  Gareth  or  Lancelot  ride  forth  with 
nobler  intentions,  or  a  more  sincere  desire  to  right  the 
wrongs  of  the  oppressed  than  did  our  hero,  the  tailor  of 
Ballynahinch.  His  mother  refused  to  leave  her  mountain 
fastnesses  for  even  a  day,  and  her  good-by  and  advice 
were  given  at  the  door,  so  as  to  make  them  more  memo- 
rable, while  Hannibal  listened  from  the  back  of  the  largest 
horse  he  could  find.  He  was  booted  and  spurred  and 


370  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

equipped  as  far  as  the  law  would  allow,  and  presented  a 
most  imposing  appearance. 

It  was  his  first  trip  from  home  to  be  gone  more  than 
a  day,  and  his  mother  had  many  forebodings  of  evil.  She 
wept,  but  her  knitting  was  clutched  tightly  in  her  hands — 
for  what  Connemara  woman  is  long  without  her  "stock- 
in"'? 

"Good-by,  mother,"  said  the  little  fellow,  struggling 
with  a  lump  in  his  throat. 

"Stay  a  moment,  me  son,"  said  his  mother,  unfolding 
the  stocking  and  counting  the  stitches.  "I  have  four 
pieces  of  advice  to  give  ye,  an'  th'  stockin'  is  a  great  guide 
to  me  mem'ry,  for  I've  placed  all  th'  points  on  me  needles. 
Yes,  yes,  th'  first  needle  was  yer  soul.  Don't  forget  yer 
mornin'  an'  evenin'  prayers,  an'  yer  'De  profundis'  every 
time  ye  pass  a  graveyard.  Give  a  little  to  every  poor 
woman  an'  man  that's  thrampin'  th'  road,  for  God's  sake 
an'  for  luck." 

"Yes,  mother,  yes!" 

"An'  th'  second — yes — I  put  it  on  th'  second  needle; 
th'  second  is  yer  body.  Take  care  of  yer  health.  Eat 
only  when  ye're  hungry,  an'  dhrink  only  when  ye're 
dhry,  no  matther  how  pressin'  th'  sthranger  may  be. 
When  ye're  sick,  or  out  of  humor  wid  yerself,  take  three 
dhrinks  of  cold  spring  wather  fastin',  an'  chew  a  handful 
of  dillisk"  (seaweed).  "It's  th'  best  medicine  in  th'  worl'. 
Don't  experiment  wid  yer  stomach,  but  keep  as  far  as 
ye  can  to  th'  food  ye  were  used  wid,"  and  she  passed 
him  a  neat  package  of  dillisk. 

"Yes,  mother,  I  promise." 

"Ay,  th'  third  needle  was  about  th'  whiska.  Keep 
away  from  th'  publics " 


HANNIBAL  FIPPS  McCONKEY  371 

"Of  course,  mother.  When  did  I  ever  care  for 
whiska  ?" 

"No,  but  th'  comp'ny.  It's  th'  comp'ny,  boy,  th' 
comp'ny.  Th'  comp'ny  will  bring  a  boy  to  anything." 
(Hannibal  was  then  over  thirty.) 

"Have  never  a  fear  about  th'  publics  an'  th'  whiska. 
Tis  little  they'll  bother  me,  mother." 

"Thank  God  for  that,  me  son;  an'  now  th'  last  needle 
reminds  me  of  th'  women.  Beware  of  th'  women,  me 
son.  Those  bould  city  girls  in  Galway  an'  Claddaghill 
thry  to  make  love  t'ye  whenever  they  lay  eyes  on  ye." 

Hannibal  reined  in  his  spirited  charger  and  looked  side- 
ways at  his  weeping  mother,  who  had  dashed  down  the 
stocking  in  the  ecstasy  of  her  grief,  then  he  tilted  his  hat 
on  one  side,  flicked  at  his  neatly  shod  foot  with  his  whip 
and  glanced  admiringly  at  his  velvet  small-clothes  and 
ribbed  hose.  The  women  so  far  had  not  been  very  anxious 
to  attract  his  attention,  but  now — now — who  knows  what 
those  city  girls  might  attempt? 

"When  they  see  that  foot  an'  ankle,  they'll  folly  ye  for 
twenty  miles  of  th'  road,"  cried  his  mother. 

"But  I'll  put  spurs  to  me  horse  an'  never  heed  them," 
retorted  Hannibal,  much  flattered. 

"From  yer  knees  down  ye  cost  me  eleven  an'  sixpence," 
sobbed  his  mother,  "an'  it  would  have  been  betther  for 
me  own  sake  if  ye  wore  a  pair  of  brogues"  (clumsy 
shoes),  "wid  never  a  buckle,  an'  stockin's  of  uncarded 
wool.  Ye'll  be  brinin'  home  one  of  those  city  girls  for 
a  wife,  an'  she  won't  know  how  to  knit  a  stockin'  or  mend 
a  net,  or  knead  a  cake." 

"Never  ye  heed,  mother,"  said  Hannibal,  "for  I'll 
never  marry  a  woman  till  I  get  th'  one  ye  like." 


372  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Promise  me  that,"  cried  his  mother,  drying  her  eyes, 
"an'  I'll  never  shed  another  tear.  There's  many  a  fine 
girl  in  Connemara  that's  breakin'  her  heart  for  ye,  an' 
when  ye  come  back  wid  th'  money,  ye  can  have  yer 
choice,  that  is,  when  ye  come  to  th'  use  of  raison,  an' 
I'll  be  content  wid  a  seat  in  th'  corner  an'  a  sight  of  ye  now 
an'  then,  only  never  heed  th'  city  girls." 

Hannibal  doubted  very  much  whether  any  girl  was 
breaking  her  heart  for  him,  but  it  was  pleasant  to  im- 
agine so. 

"Ye  are  th'  only  woman  I  ever  loved,  mother,  or  ever 
will,"  exclaimed  the  little  tailor,  gallantly.  His  mother 
shook  her  head. 

"Ye  don't  know  what  ye're  talkin'  about,"  she  rejoined. 
"Ye  don't  know  th'  cuteness  of  those  girls,  especially 
when  they  see  th'  money.  Don't  believe  a  word  they 
say." 

"No,  mother,  no." 

"If  they  say  ye're  as  handsome  as  Apollo,  don't  be- 
lieve them." 

"No,  no,"  said  the  little  tailor,  whose  horse  was  rest- 
less. 

"An'  if  they  say  ye're  as  big  as  Ma'am  Turc"  (one  of 
the  highest  mountains  in  the  Twelve  Pins),  "don't  believe 
them,  me  son." 

"No,  indeed,  mother,  no,  indeed,"  said  Hannibal, 
wincing.  "Good-by,  mother,  good-by!" 

He  was  away,  and  his  mother  watched  him  till  a  bend 
in  the  road  hid  him  from  sight,  then  returned  to  her  little 
house  and  sobbed  her  lonely  old  heart  out  on  the  pillow 
where  his  head  had  last  rested,  kissed  the  four  books 
that  constituted  his  library,  and  his  military  accoutre- 
ments one  by  one,  before  she  dropped  to  sleep. 


HANNIBAL  FIPPS  McCONKEY  373 

If  the  truth  must  be  told,  Hannibal  forgot  half  his 
promises  to  his  mother  long  before  he  reached  his  destina- 
tion. Not  at  all  deterred  by  his  mother's  parting  words, 
he  winked  at  the  first  pretty  girl  he  met,  and  only  for  the 
swiftness  of  his  horse  would  have  met  with  summary 
punishment  from  her  sweetheart,  who  regarded  him  as 
a  "play-acthor"  on  his  way  to  tumble  at  the  fair.  He 
passed  three  old  graveyards  without  ever  thinking  of 
their  inmates,  and  tossed  off  a  small  glass  of  poteen  at 
every  "shabeen"  he  met,  "just  for  th'  sake  of  th' 
comp'ny." 

He  reached  his  destination  in  due  time,  and  was  much 
pleased  with  the  old  city,  and  immediately  set  forth  on 
business.  He  soon  found  his  lawyer  and  satisfactorily 
proved  his  claim  to  his  uncle's  property. 

"The  property  is  in  good  condition,"  said  the  lawyer, 
"and  is  worth  double  the  rent  it  is  bringing  in  now.  The 
lease  has  run  out,  and  if  the  present  occupant  does  not 
care  to  pay  according  to  the  valuation,  there  are  three  or 
four  others  to  choose  from,  who  will  be  glad  of  the 
chance.  I  will  go  down  with  you  and  introduce  you." 

The  building  was  a  good  one,  and  occupied  by  a  grocer 
— a  woman — who  was  successfully  running  the  business 
since  the  death  of  her  husband.  She  was  in  tears  at  the 
prospect  of  increased  rent,  and  pleaded  hard  for  a  re- 
newal on  the  old  terms.  Her  shop  was  a  model  of  neat- 
ness, and  the  tea  and  coffee  canisters  shone  like  gold  in 
the  eyes  of  the  unsophisticated  Connemara  man.  She 
took  them  to  a  back  parlor,  also  a  model  of  neatness,  and 
treated  them  to  a  glass  of  wine,  but  her  tears  still  flowed. 

"This  is  a  good  business  stand,  Mrs.  O'Brien,"  said 
the  lawyer. 


374       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"It  was,"  sobbed  the  widow ;  "but  so  many  other  shops 
have  started  that  th'  rent'll  take  all  th'  profits." 

"Well,  of  course,"  said  the  lawyer,  hastily;  "but  you 
are  well  known,  and  your  trade  will  follow  you.  We  have 
three  offers — one  from  a  neighbor  of  yours — to  give  us 
double  what  you  have  been  paying." 

"A  neighbor  of  mine?  I  know  who  ye  mane — that 
double-dalin'  hypocrite  of  a  Scotchman,  who  is  eternally 
quotin'  th'  Bible  for  every  undherminin'  thrick  he  does — 
a  fine  neighbor,  indeed !  I  wouldn't  give  a  thraneen  for 
a  field  of  such  neighbors ;"  and  Mrs.  O'Brien's  tears  dried 
up  with  the  force  of  her  indignation.  "I'll  have  to  take 
me  boy  home  from  college  an'  me  girl  from  th'  convent, 
to  pay  th'  increased  rent,  an'  th'  boy  wantin'  but  two 
years  of  th'  ordination." 

"You  see  she  does  not  think  of  leaving,"  whispered  the 
lawyer,  as  the  woman  left  the  room  for  a  minute;  "and 
she  must  be  doing  well  to  be  able  to  send  her  children  to 
such  institutions." 

"I've  pinched  meself,  gentlemen,  indeed  I  have,  to  give 
th'  children  th'  chance,"  said  the  widow,  entering  and 
answering  unconsciously  the  lawyer's  low-whispered 
words.  "An'  in  no  other  way  could  I  do  it,  but  praise  th' 
Lord,  if  it's  His  will,  sure  I  must  be  satisfied.  Home  they 
must  come  now,  an'  help  earn  a  livin',"  she  continued. 

The  lawyer  smiled  dryly.  Mrs.  O'Brien  was  a  good 
business  woman,  and  he  took  her  plea  of  poverty  with  a 
pinch  of  salt. 

"Well,  my  good  woman,"  he  said,  "business  is  busi- 
ness, you  know.  As  I  have  told  you,  there  are  four  bids 
for  the  occupancy  of  this  shop,  and  of  course  we  must 
give  it  to  the  best.  My  client  here " 


HANNIBAL  FIPPS  McCONKEY  375 

But  he  had  reckoned  without  his  client  so  far.  Han- 
nibal, meantime,  had  not  uttered  a  word.  He  had  been 
sitting  quietly  and  taking  everything  in,  depending  on 
his  lawyer,  as  an  ignorant  mountaineer  from  Connemara 
should.  They  did  not  know  Hannibal  Fipps  McConkey 
yet,  and  his  tremendous  voice  made  them  jump. 

"Who  owns  this  property?" 

The  little  tailor  was  standing  at  his  full  height,  his 
perpendicular  hair  adding  the  usual  three  inches  to  his 
stature,  and  his  expression  stern  and  commanding.  The 
woman,  who  had  ignored  him  in  her  talk  with  the  lawyer, 
now  regarded  him  curiously. 

"Why,  you,  of  course,"  answered  the  lawyer.  "You 
are  Hannibal  Fipps  McConkey,  properly  identified  and 
so  forth." 

"Well,  I  have  a  word  to  say  here." 

"All  you  want,  Mr.  McConkey,"  answered  the  lawyer, 
surprised.  "But  as  I  thought  you  did  not  know  much 
about  property — town  or  city  property,  I  mean " 

"I'm  old  enough  to  learn,  anyway,"  returned  the  tailor; 
"an'  I  have  discovered  while  I'm  here  that  this  lady  is 
pay  in'  sufficient  rent  now." 

"But,  Mr.  McConkey,  as  your  legal  adviser  and 
agent " 

"I  don't  need  any  adviser,"  said  the  tailor,  quickly; 
"an'  if  ye  wish  to  remain  me  agent,  ye  will  commence  be 
doin'  exactly  as  I  tell  ye.  Discipline  is  th'  heart's  blood  of 
th'  army,  an'  even  in  private  life  must  be  maintained  if 
we  are  to  have  any  success.  As  a  military  man,  I  must 
have  discipline." 

"I  thought  you  were  a " 

"Be  nature  I  am  a  military  man,  be  circumstances  a 


376       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

tailor ;  but  nature  rules  in  spite  of  art,  an'  as  th'  owner  of 
this  property  I  wish  to  assert  meself  as  fully  satisfied  with 
what  this  clacent  woman  is  payin'.  That  settles  it." 

"But,"  said  the  man  of  law,  who,  not  being  a  success 
as  a  pleader,  eked  out  a  respectable  living  by  collecting 
rent  for  country  clients,  and  depended  on  his  percentage 
of  money  collected,  "this  is  madness.  We  have  already 
four  offers  for  this  business  house,  and  the  fourth,  a  solid, 
responsible  man,  is  willing  to  give  bonds,  and  wants  a 
ten  years'  lease  at  fifty  pounds  a  year." 

The  solid,  respectable  man  was  not  above  coming  into 
the  shop  of  the  woman  he  was  seeking  to  dispossess,  and 
stood  unobserved  but  observing  in  the  rear. 

"I'm  satisfied,"  said  McConkey,  "to  sign  this  good 
lady's  lease  on  th'  old  terms  an'  at  once." 

"'Tis  a  fair  temptin'  o'  Providence,"  said  the  new- 
comer, after  Mrs.  O'Brien  had  left  the  room  for  her  old 
lease,  "tae  be  sae  lavish  wi'  th'  siller  that  th'  guid 
Fayther  above  hae  entrusted  to  our  keepin'." 

"God  bless  ye,  Mr.  McConkey,"  gasped  the  widow,  as 
her  new  landlord  affixed  his  signature  to  the  five  years' 
lease  at  the  old  rent.  "God  bless  ye,  an'  He  will.  I'd  be 
hard  set  to  make  any  higher  rent,  as  I  couldn't  spread  out 
an'  get  new  thrade  like  a  man.  Th'  old,  steady  customers 
is  all  I  can  manage." 

The  lawyer  gave  a  dry  cough.  McDougal,  the  neigh- 
bor, who  obligingly  signed  as  witness,  shut  his  mouth 
grimly  but  said  nothing.  If  Mrs.  O'Brien  had  been  a 
young  woman  with  attractive  features,  the  lawyer  and 
the  disappointed  Scotchman  would  have  understood, 
partly,  but  they  failed  utterly  to  comprehend  the  chivalry 
that  could  sacrifice  monetary  prospects  to  help  out  a  plain- 
looking  old  woman  and  a  perfect  stranger. 


HANNIBAL  FIPPS  McCONKEY  377 

"He's  no  fit  tae  be  at  large,"  muttered  the  neighbor,  as 
he  mixed  the  glass  of  punch  handed  him  by  the  grateful 
widow. 

"He's  a  d d  little  eccentric  fool,"  muttered  the 

lawyer  in  the  same  business,  but  he  said  nothing.  Half  a 
loaf  was  better  than  no  bread,  and  the  percentage,  though 
cut  low,  was  something. 

"Don't  say  a  word,  Mrs.  O'Brien,"  said  the  little  tailor, 
manfully.  "If  we  can't  do  a  good  turn  for  a  fellow 
creature,  what's  th'  use  of  money?  We  can  take  nothin' 
wid  us,  an'  all  we  require  at  last  is  six  feet  of  earth." 

"Five  feet,  mon,  five  feet.  Th'  guid  Book  says, 
'Which  of  ye  by  thinkin'  can  add  to  his  stature  one 
cubit  ?'  "  interrupted  the  Scotchman,  gravely. 

"Five  feet  or  six!"  cried  the  widow;  "whichsoever  it 
is,  'twill  cover  th'  body  of  a  man,  Mr.  McDougal,  d'ye 
hear?  'Twill  cover  th'  body  of  a  man,  an'  not  a  dhried- 
up  anatomy  that  maintains  all  his  agreements  out  of  th' 
Holy  Book,  an'  makin'  a  mockery  of  sacred  things.  Get 
out  of  me  house,  afther  insultin'  this  gentleman,  th'  best 
landlord  a  poor  woman  ever  had.  Get  out  of  me  house, 
an'  never  darken  me  door  again !" 

With  a  regretful  backward  glance  at  his  unfinished 
punch,  the  Scotchman  was  preparing  to  obey,  but  Mc- 
Conkey  headed  him-  off,  and  springing  over  all  obstacles, 
reached  him  with  a  blow  on  the  jaw. 

"Come  outside,  come  outside!"  he  yelled  in  an  ecstasy 
of  fury.  "Let  us  have  this  bout  outside.  I  won't  dirty 
th'  dacent  woman's  floor  wid  ye.  Outside,  an'  fair 
play !" 

The  Scotchman,  not  having  time  to  remember  a  text, 
was  pondering  what  to  do,  when  Mrs.  O'Brien  prudently 


378       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

opened  the  back  door  against  which  he  stood,  pushed  him 
down  the  steps,  and,  closing  it,  she  begged  the  fiery  tailor 
to  remember  it  was  market-day  and  the  police  on  the 
watch  for  signs  of  disorder.  "Ye'd  be  locked  up,  me 
dear  man,  an'  there  ye'd  have  to  stay,  mebbe  fer  a  month," 
she  added.  But  the  tailor  had  plenty  of  vitality  that 
needed  vent,  and  being  now  fully  aroused,  he  saw  no  need 
for  caution.  Besides,  his  pockets  were  full  of  the  ready- 
money  part  of  his  legacy,  and  public  houses  were  plenty. 
From  nearly  every  one  fiddlers  or  pipers  were  discoursing 
sweet  music,  and  the  country  people,  who  were  arriving 
with  their  produce,  were  beating  time  unconsciously  and 
twirling  their  sticks. 

Hannibal  Fipps  McConkey  took  an  effusive  farewell 
of  his  new  tenant  and  his  lawyer,  and,  mounting  his  horse, 
rode  slowly  down  the  street,  slapping  his  pockets  every 
now  and  then  to  hear  the  money  jingle.  He  dismounted 
at  the  door  of  the  gayest  looking  public  house  and  called 
for  a  dram.  "Not  forgettin'  these  gentlemen  here,"  he 
added,  indicating  a  number  of  loungers,  who,  having 
nothing  to  sell  and  no  money  to  buy  with,  were  busy 
taking  in  the  sights  and,  incidentally,  all  chances  to  drink 
at  some  other  person's  expense. 

The  "gentlemen,"  nothing  loth,  crowded  about  the 
bar,  but  the  proprietor  was  a  wary  old  soul.  "Two  an' 
six,"  he  muttered,  after  counting  heads,  but  without 
touching  a  bottle. 

"Two  an'  six,"  repeated  McConkey ;  "certainly,  whiska, 
hot  or  could,  to  suit  th'  boys." 

"Ayther  hot  or  could,  but  nothin'  widout  th'  two 
an'  six,"  said  the  landlord,  firmly. 

"Dhrinks  first,"  said  the  tailor;  "if  ye're  not  afeard. 
If  ye  are,  we'll  go  to  another  place." 


HANNIBAL  FIPPS  McCONKEY  379 

"G'wan,"  answered  the  landlord,  scornfully,  "an'  good 
luck  attend  ye." 

"Whiska  for  twelve!"  shouted  Hannibal  at  the  next 
house,  "an'  be  quick  about  it,  me  man." 

"Let  me  see  th'  color  of  yer  money  first,"  said  the  land- 
lord, looking  down  at  the  little  customer  with  a  big  voice 
and  not  liking  the  style  of  his  company. 

"No  whiska,  no  money !"  shouted  the  tailor. 

"Well,  then,  get  out,"  said  the  landlord,  who  felt  sure 
he  saw  in  his  strange  customer  a  market-day  beat  and 
rowdy.  "Get  out  of  here,  I  say.  None  of  yer  thricks  here 
on  dacent  people !" 

For  answer  Hannibal  Fipps  McConkey  drew  out  a 
handful  of  gold — his  poor  uncle's  savings — and  passed  it 
before  his  eyes.  So  much  money  almost  took  away  the 
landlord's  breath,  and  he  gasped  out  to  his  assistant  to 
bring  on  the  whisky. 

"Not  for  me,"  said  the  tailor,  "not  for  me ;  but  ye  were 
so  anxious  about  th'  color  of  me  money  that  I  thought 
I'd  show  it  to  ye,  but  that's  all  th'  good  ye'll  get  of  it. 
Come  on,  boys." 

The  landlord  was  desperate.  So  much  coin  of  the 
realm  was  seldom  seen  together  in  Galway,  and  he  wanted 
his  share  of  it. 

"Ye  ordhered  th'  dhrinks  an'  ye  must  pay  fer  them," 
he  said. 

"An'  ye  ordhered  me  out  widout  them.  Don't  forget 
that,  me  man." 

The  loungers  laughed,  and  followed  the  gallant  tailor 
to  yet  another  drinking  place.  Some  one  of  the  idlers 
must  have  posted  the  next  landlord  on  the  true  condition 
of  affairs,  for  our  hero  was  well  received,  and  not  asked 
for  any  money  in  advance.  He  was  jubilant. 


380       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

News  of  the  money  he  was  spending  made  the  second 
publican  very  angry.  He  cursed  himself  for  his  folly, 
and  as  he  was  of  a  very  envious  and  vindictive  disposition, 
he  soon  thought  of  a  plan  that  would  spoil  his  lucky 
neighbor's  trade  and  the  little  Connemara  man's  fun.  He 
affected  to  think  that  the  little  man  was  a  counterfeiter — 
for  how  could  any  poor  "Angashore"  from  the  wilds  of 
Connemara  get  so  much  money  honestly?  Trusting  to 
the  policeman's  lack  of  knowledge,  he  drew  him  aside 
confidentially. 

"There's  money  in  town  to-day  that  never  saw  th'  mint, 
I  think,"  he  said,  with  a  wink. 

"Where  is  he?"  ejaculated  the  policeman,  meaning  the 
counterfeiter,  as  a  vision  of  promotion  flitted  through  his 
brain.  "Where  is  he?" 

"Dhrinkin'  away  at  McKeowan's,  wid  a  crowd  of 
idlers." 

The  schemer  forgot  to  add  a  description  of  the  little 
tailor,  so  the  policeman  clutched  his  billy  and  looked  out 
for  a  very  different  individual.  In  the  meantime,  one 
of  the  loungers  got  near  enough  to  hear  the  whispered 
conversation  between  the  disappointed  barman  and  the 
guardian  of  the  law,  and  he  slid  back  quietly,  drew  the 
tailor  through  the  rear  door,  and  warned  him. 

"We  can  get  away  through  th'  back  sthreets  beyant  to 
th'  widow  Doyle's  shabeen,  an'  they'll  never  look  fer  ye 
there.  She  sells  th'  best  dhrop  in  all  Ireland." 

McConkey  was  not  impressed.  He  did  not  love  whisky 
for  whisky's  sake,  and  he  was  in  good  fighting  trim  from 
the  unusual  amount  he  had  imbibed.  He  would  not  beat 
a  retreat  without  leaving  his  mark  on  the  enemy. 

"How  will  ye  do  it?"  asked  his  new  acquaintance,  im- 


HANNIBAL  FIPPS  McCONKEY  381 

patiently.  "Arrah,  have  sense,  man.  How  can  ye  tackle 
him  alone,  in  th'  public  sthreets  of  Galway?" 

"Ye  know  nothin'  of  th'  tactics  of  war,"  interrupted  the 
tailor.  "What  is  he  doin'  now?" 

"Lookin'  out  of  his  door  at  th'  policeman,  who  is  just 
enterin'  McKeowan's  to  arrest  ye,  an'  th'  crowd  is  fol- 
lowin'." 

"Len'  me  yer  blackthorn,"  said  Hannibal,  "an'  I'll  at- 
tack him  in  th'  rear." 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he  dived  down  the 
back  street  and,  turning  again  up  a  side  alley,  came  right 
behind  the  publican,  who,  with  a  satisfied  smile  on  his 
round  face,  was  peeping  out  slyly  to  enjoy  the  fun  of  the 
arrest.  Hannibal  Fipps  McConkey  thought  of  his  name- 
sake in  like  circumstances  when  he  surprised  the  Romans, 
and,  raising  his  stick,  with  all  his  force  let  it  drop  on  the 
smooth,  bald  pate. 

With  a  yell,  the  surprised  publican  turned  to  find  his 
enemy  in  front  of  him,  and  his  head  smarting.  Now  was 
the  little  warrior's  time  to  disappear,  but  he  didn't.  He 
danced  around  the  big  man  and  belabored  him  before 
he  had  time  to  think,  and  then  springing  on  his  back,  he 
pulled  his  ears  and  his  nose.  By  this  time  a  crowd  had 
gathered,  but  it  was  nearly  all  composed  of  women  and 
girls,  out  for  a  day's  fun,  and  they  cheered  the  little  man 
for  his  courage  in  attacking  "Ready  Money  Jack,"  who 
was  anything  but  a  favorite. 

Another  crowd  was  around  the  policeman,  who  had 
gathered  in  the  wrong  man  and  was  searching  him  for 
spurious  coin.  With  his  pockets  turned  inside  out,  the 
poor  fellow  was  regarding  his  custodian  with  a  counte- 
nance of  the  greatest  consternation. 


382      FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

"Which  pocket  do  ye  keep  yer  valuables  in?"  said  the 
officer. 

"Valuables?"  echoed  the  man. 

"Well,  yer  counterfeit  money.  Oh,  I've  been  a  long 
time  lookin'  fer  ye,  me  bouchal." 

"I  haven't  had  a  cent  of  counterfeit  or  any  other  kind 
of  money  fer  more  than  a  year.  Who  told  ye  that 
story  ?" 

"Ain't  ye  th'  man  that  has  been  spendin'  money  like 
wather  this  mornin'  from  public  to  public  ?" 

"Yerra,  no!  That's  a  little  fellow  from  away  back  in 
th'  mountains  in  Connemara,  an'  devil  a  hait  wrong  with 
his  money.  I  wish  I  had  a  barrel  of  it !  There  he  is  now, 
pommeling  'Old  Ready  Money'  for  all  he  is  worth !" 

This  was  the  second  time  for  Hannibal  to  disappear, 
and  he  did.  His  victim  was  yelling  lustily,  and  the  police- 
man dropped  his  bogus  "counterfeit"  and  bore  down  on 
him.  When  they  reached  the  spot,  there  was  no  sign  of  the 
valiant  tailor.  He  had  disappeared  as  completely  as  if 
the  ground  had  opened  up  and  swallowed  him.  A  search 
was  immediately  instituted,  but  no  trace  of  him  could  be 
found. 

To  tell  the  truth,  Hannibal  was  not  responsible  for  this 
sudden  removal.  He  was  picked  up  bodily,  a  hand  pressed 
tightly  over  his  mouth,  and  quickly  borne  away.  When 
he  was  dropped  down,  dancing  and  raging,  he  found 
himself  in  Mrs.  O'Brien's  back  parlor,  and  the  good 
woman  hanging  up  a  large  cloak. 

"What  th'  devil "  began  McConkey. 

"Hush,  me  dear  boy;  th'  police  are  outside,  an'  if  they 
hear  ye,  ye'll  be  deprived  of  yer  liberty  fer  months.  Ye 
don't  know  th'  police.  Think  of  yer  poor  mother  waitin' 


HANNIBAL  FIPPS  McCONKEY  383 

fer  ye.  Go  on  to  her  an'  this  thing  will  blow  over.  I'll 
explain  things  to  th'  police." 

"But,  ma'am,  me  reputation  is  at  stake." 

"Hush,  hush,  they're  around  th'  door!  Be  said  be  me 
I  took  th'  liberty  of  pickin'  ye  up  an'  puttin'  ye  undher  me 
cloak,  fer  I  was  watchin'  th'  skirmish  from  th'  window  an' 
knew  how  it  would  end.  Yer  honorable  threatment  of 
me  I'll  never  ferget,  an'  I  couldn't  think  more  of  ye  if  ye 
were  me  own  son,  no,  indeed !" 

Mr.  McConkey  was  compelled  to  agree  with  her  that 
discretion  was  the  better  part  of  valor,  when  he  saw  the 
crowds  going  backward  and  forward  laughing  at  the 
efforts  of  the  police  to  find  him.  His  tenant  proved  her- 
self an  excellent  diplomat  as  well  as  a  business  woman, 
for  she  stood  suave  and  dignified  behind  her  counter, 
weighing  tea  and  sugar  and  listening  to  everyone's  ac- 
count of  his  disappearance. 

When  all  was  quiet  he  was  escorted  by  a  friend  of  the 
widow  to  the  main  road,  where  he  found  his  horse  sad- 
dled and  bridled,  and  faced  for  Connemara. 

"This  is  betther  than  bein'  escorted  to  th'  jail.  I'll 
explain  everything  when  ye're  gone,  but  if  ye  stay  now, 
th'  police  would  have  to  arrest  ye  on  th'  charge  of  'Old 
Ready  Money.'  " 

Hannibal  had  got  enough  of  old  Galway  for  awhile. 
He  took  his  sick  head  and  depleted  pockets  as  matters 
of  course,  and  only  felt  sorry  that  he  had  forgotten  a 
present  for  his  mother.  When  he  arrived  home,  sad 
news  awaited  him.  She  was  sick;  it  was  the  first  time 
she  had  been  left  alone,  and  she  had  worried  herself  into 
a  fever  over  his  prolonged  stay. 

Hannibal  had  never  realized  how  much  he  thought  of 

25 


384       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

his  mother  till  the  cruel  grave  had  hidden  her  from  his 
sight  forever,  and,  warrior  and  all  as  he  was,  he  broke 
down  utterly  and  wept  as  if  his  heart  would  break.  He 
blamed  himself  for  going  away ;  he  cursed  the  legacy,  and 
hated  to  enter  the  little  house  under  the  hill,  where  the 
wind  blew  mournfully  down  the  wide  chimney  and  swept 
over  the  cold  hearth,  once  so  warm. 

He  might  have  looked  around  for  a  wife,  but  Han- 
nibal's ideas  were,  like  his  military  aspirations,  very  high 
and  unapproachable;  and  his  ideal  was  to  be  worshiped 
only  at  a  distance. 

With  his  improved  fortunes  and  his  new  freedom  from 
responsibility,  Hannibal's  thoughts  flew  again  to  a  mili- 
tary life.  I  wish  I  could  say  that  his  aim  was  grand  and 
noble — that  his  love  of  warfare  was  but  as  a  means  to  a 
noble  end,  and  that  end  the  emancipation  of  his  native 
country  from  the  cruel  chains  that  bound  her.  As  a  faith- 
ful chronicler  and  not  a  romancer,  I  must  state  things  as 
they  really  were,  and  not  as  they  should  be.  We  must 
take  our  friends  as  we  find  them,  and  make  the  best  of 
their  failings.  Truth  compels  me  to  say  that  Hannibal 
Fipps  McConkey  loved  fighting  for  fighting's  sake  and 
would  cheerfully  have  joined  any  side  that  would  allow 
him  a  word  in  its  leadership,  but  whichever  side  accepted 
his  services  would  be  sure  of  his  allegiance,  for  our  little 
warrior  was  neither  a  coward  nor  a  traitor. 

He  applied  to  the  Yeomanry  of  his  county  and  other 
counties,  but  he  was  too  small,  and  the  yokels  composing 
it,  like  the  "Tommies"  composing  the  regulars,  laughed 
at  him  for  his  pains,  and  said  biting  things  about  tailors 
in  general  and  one  in  particular. 

"Bring  eight  more  an'  thry  again,"  said  one  big  disciple 


HANNIBAL  FIPPS  McCONKEY  385 

of  "King  Billy."  "Sure  it  takes  nine  o'  ye  to  make  one 
man." 

Hannibal,  not  long  afterward,  proved  the  lie  upon  his 
head.  But  "that's  another  story." 

This  gibe  from  men  he  honestly  considered  his  inferiors 
rankled  in  the  mind  of  the  aspirant  for  military  honors, 
and  he  felt  like  throwing  up  the  tailoring  business  alto- 
gether ;  but  his  style  and  workmanship  were  more  popular 
than  ever,  and  he  hated  to  throw  out  of  employment  the 
men  who  were  working  for  him. 

But  now,  without  flourish  of  trumpet  or  warning  of  any 
kind,  the  tide  turned,  and  McConkey  at  last  had  a  chance 
to  become  famous,  and  "knew  his  opportunity."  Some 
desperate  men  had  joined  together  to  right  the  wrongs 
of  centuries.  They  were  but  a  handful,  but  great  in  hope 
and  determined  in  purpose.  Ireland,  of  all  countries,  is 
alone  capable  of  leading  a  forlorn  hope.  Failure  against 
heavy  odds  is  no  disgrace,  and  credit  is  always  given  to 
the  minority  when  the  minority  is  in  the  right. 

The  movement  had  not  penetrated  to  Connemara,  where 
the  majority  lived  in  blissful  ignorance  of  the  doings  of 
the  outside  world.  Few  of  them  ever  went  ten  miles  from 
home,  and  were  more  interested  in  a  big  catch  of  fish  than 
all  the  risings  in  the  world.  Beyond  the  mountains  and 
the  sea,  nothing  was  of  much  interest  to  them. 

Not  so  with  McConkey.  He  had  been  to  Galway  and 
later  to  Westport  and  Castlebar,  and  the  military  doings 
there  had  set  his  blood  on  fire.  If  the  Yeomanry  of  his 
county  had  rejected  him,  why  not  try  the  New  Move- 
ment? Maybe  if  he  made  himself  a  becoming  uniform, 
conspicuous  for  the  national  colors,  it  would  predominate 
over  his  deficiency.  The  thought  overpowered  him.  It 


386       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

raised  him  three  inches  already.  He  walked  on  air  all 
day  and  at  night  retired  early  to  think. 

Out  of  the  workings  of  his  brain  evolved  a  scheme, 
magnificent  and  unique,  and  the  design  of  a  uniform  that 
would  throw  those  of  England,  Germany,  and  France  far 
into  the  shade.  It  would  be  the  uniform  of  a  general, 
for  he  would  raise  and  manage  an  army  himself. 

Then  he  wrote  a  letter  to  the  headquarters  of  the  New 
Movement  and  let  them  know  his  intentions.  He  knew 
that  he  had  to  observe  the  greatest  secrecy  lest  the  police 
get  hold  of  it.  Galway  was  the  nearest  city  imbued  with 
the  latest  idea  for  liberty,  but  Galway  was  a  forbidden 
place  to  him  till  the  racket  he  had  made  there  had  blown 
over.  However,  he  could  send  a  man  incidentally  to  buy 
cloth  and  really  to  deliver  his  letter  and  an  imaginary  army 
for  his  wronged  country.  The  army  was  in  his  brain; 
but  he  was  sure,  after  they  saw  the  uniform,  everyone 
would  join. 

Larry  McGovern  was  an  honest  and  capable  man,  and 
would  willingly  die  before  he  would  divulge  any  secret 
intrusted  to  him  by  his  employer  or  anyone  else,  and  the 
complications  that  arose  were  not  the  result  of  anything 
but  pure  misfortune. 

Hannibal  Fipps  McConkey  had  not  signed  his  name, 
but  had  given  unmistakable  directions,  so  he  thought, 
where  he  was  to  be  found.  The  mysterious  letter  ended 
thus:  "Where  the  third  fissure  in  the  wall  of  mountains 
faces  Bertraghboy  Bay,  you  will  find  us,  ready  and 
willing  to  sacrifice  our  lives  for  the  cause.  God  save 
Ireland!  GENERAL  H.  F.  M." 

Larry  put  the  letter  deep  in  his  pocket  with  some 
samples  of  cloth,  intending  to  do  everything  in  first-class 


HANNIBAL  FIPPS  McCONKEY  387 

style.  He  did,  but  not  in  the  style  intended.  He  dropped 
the  letter  in  the  first  tailor's  shop  he  came  to,  and  didn't 
miss  it  till  he  went  to  look  for  the  mysterious  No.  9. 

Fearing  to  make  inquiries  for  the  letter,  and  hoping  to 
hear  news  of  it  indirectly,  he  visited  every  place  of  enter- 
tainment in  the  town,  only  to  find,  when  the  day  was 
over,  that  he  had  befuddled  his  brain  for  nothing.  Fear- 
ful of  the  consequences,  should  he  return  to  the  fiery 
tailor  with  his  story,  he  arranged  another  so  skillfully  as 
to  deceive  his  employer. 

"What's  th'  answer  to  me  letter?"  whispered  Mc- 
Conkey,  on  meeting  him. 

"Whisth,  whisth,  don't  let  th'  walls  hear  ye.  He  said, 
'All  right;  keep  on  dhrillinV  "  "That'll  suit  him,  any- 
way," thought  the  messenger,  "an'  keep  him  out  of  our 
way." 

"What — what  kind  of  a  man  was  he?  Was  he  in 
military  dhress?"  asked  the  grateful  McConkey. 

"Well,  I  couldn't  tell  what  kind  of  a  man  he  was,  be 
raison  of  th'  mask  he  wore;  but  his  dhress  was  grand 
entirely,  all  gold  buttons  an'  epaulettes  an'  green " 

"Green  cloth  an'  gold  thrimmings!  Was  it  light  or 
dark  green?" 

"I  dunno,"  said  Larry,  getting  uneasy;  "but  it  was 
gallus  bright  anyhow — an'  his  sword  shone " 

"He  carried  a  sword?    Perhaps  he  was  th'  general." 

"Faith,  maybe  so.    He  was  grand  widout  a  doubt." 

"Did  he  say  anything  in  regard  to ?" 

"Whisth,  whisth,  he  called  ye  'General' — 'General  Mc- 
Conkey'— don't  ask  me  any  more." 

General  Hannibal  Fipps  McConkey!  How  grand  it 
sounded !  So  the  new  party  had  recognized  his  military 


388  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

talents  at  last.  His  gratitude  knew  no  bounds.  He 
marched  up  and  down  his  little  shop  in  ecstasy. 

Meanwhile,  the  police  of  Galway,  the  county-seat  of 
that  famous  county,  had  been  puzzled  over  a  mysterious 
letter  that  had  been  picked  up  on  the  street.  It  was  at 
first  thought  to  be  a  hoax,  but  on  account  of  the  trouble- 
some times,  two  coast  guards  were  told  to  watch  at  that 
point  and  report. 

The  report  startled  the  police.  Sounds  of  an  immense 
concourse  of  men  drilling  could  be  heard  from  the  moun- 
tain, but  none  was  visible.  Reports  of  men  mysteriously 
banded  at  various  points  confirmed  the  report.  This 
concourse  of  rebels  on  the  isolated  west  coast,  where 
suspicion  never  fell  and  where  men  could  be  landed  in 
instalments  as  fishermen,  was  only  another  proof  of  the 
determination  of  those  dangerous  rebels  to  make  trouble. 

The  cave  of  the  mountain  in  question  had  long  been 
our  hero's  drilling  place.  It  was  large,  roomy  and 
resonant,  but  its  recesses  were  known  to  only  a  few.  Mc- 
Conkey's  voice  was  of  immense  volume,  and  this,  echoed 
through  from  these  cavernous  depths,  carried  the  im- 
pression to  strangers  of  an  immense  concourse  of  people. 

Hannibal  came  and  went  to  his  mountain  fortress  un- 
noticed. A  stranger  might  travel  all  day  and  not  be  able 
to  find  the  exit  or  entrance;  he  might  take  a  ma'am 
(mountain  pass)  that  would  appear  to  be  leading  him  all 
right  and  find  himself  ten  miles  away  in  two  hours'  time, 
and  in  a  totally  different  part  of  the  country. 

Hannibal  had  concocted  three  cannons  from  wrecks  and 
remnants  that  he  had  picked  up  at  various  times,  and 
placed  them  in  port-holes  on  the  fortress  side  of  the 
mountain.  The  particular  cave  chosen  by  him  for  his 


HANNIBAL  FIPPS  McCONKEY  389 

headquarters  was  reached  by  a  circuitous  path  between 
two  mountains,  the  hollow  of  one  of  which  it  filled. 
Three  sides  of  this  mountain  were  smiling  and  innocent 
looking ;  the  other  was  precipitous,  rocky,  and  forbidding. 
This  side  faced  the  sea  and  an  acre  of  impassable  and 
slippery-looking  boulders,  against  which  the  waters  of 
the  bold  Atlantic  dashed  in  an  angry  and  sullen  manner. 
The  fishing  boats  often  split  on  these  treacherous  boulders 
in  the  dark,  but  most  of  the  fishermen  knew  enough  to 
keep  away  from  Beina  Duhr  (Black  Ben). 

The  coast  guards  were  told  to  give  an  eye  to  the  land- 
ing of  strangers  at  this  point,  and  their  reports  were 
that  nothing  suspicious  had  been  seen  around.  Fishing 
smacks  (French)  had  ventured  near,  taken  the  best  of 
the  salmon  fishing  and  sailed  away. 

The  mention  of  the  "French"  to  the  authorities  was 
like  waving  a  red  rag  before  a  bull.  The  French !  Did 
any  of  them  land  ? 

Why,  yes,  occasionally  a  Frenchman  stopped  to  dance 
on  a  festival  day  or  marry  one  of  the  girls,  but  there  was 
no  landing  of  men.  The  reports  of  the  detectives  were 
different.  They  had  noticed  a  great  noise  as  of  men 
talking  and  marching  somewhere.  The  worst  was  ad- 
mitted. The  rebels  must  have  landed  as  fishermen,  till 
the  hills  were  crowded  with  them,  and  there  remained 
secure  till  augmented  in  sufficient  numbers  to  declare 
themselves  boldly.  The  result  of  this  discovery  was  an 
order  to  proceed  with  the  same  secrecy,  take  them  by 
surprise,  and  nip  the  rebellion  in  the  bud. 

A  large  body  of  the  militia  was  sent  down,  and  the 
arrival  of  this  warlike  contingent  more  than  surprised 
the  peaceable  inhabitants  of  the  coast.  The  soldiers  saw 


390  FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

in  every  fisherman  a  rebel  of  the  worst  kind,  and  would 
have  been  delighted  at  an  order  to  massacre  and  pillage 
as  in  '98,  but  they  concentrated  all  their  forces  to  break 
up  the  camp  among  the  hills,  and  take  prisoner  or  kill  all 
who  would  not  surrender. 

To  proceed  on  an  open  plain  was  one  thing ;  to  stumble 
through  unfrequented  mountain  passes  where  the  men 
were  often  obliged  to  walk  single  file,  where  they  could 
be  picked  off,  one  by  one,  without  the  chances  of  return- 
ing a  shot,  was  another. 

The  pass  which  the  rebels  were  defending  was  a  narrow 
defile,  which  could  only  be  entered  by  two  abreast.  With 
a  galling,  incessant  fire  from  the  cave  above,  the  un- 
disciplined Yeomanry  broke  ranks  and  fled.  They  soon 
returned,  however,  at  the  entreaties,  threats,  and  sneers 
of  their  officers,  to  find  that  their  provisions  had  become 
saturated  under  one  of  the  sudden  Connemara  showers, 
and  that  they  were  expected  to  wear  the  rebels  out,  till 
starvation  would  force  them  to  surrender.  Pickets  were 
stationed  to  prevent  the  landing  of  provisions  to  the 
enemy,  but  the  militia  were  only  soldiers  in  name,  and 
did  not  understand  the  exigencies  of  warfare.  They 
complained  of  the  wet ;  they  did  not  appreciate  the  beauty 
of  the  heather  when  used  as  a  couch,  under  a  damp  cover- 
lid. They  sickened,  and  cursed  the  rebels,  and  wanted 
to  go  home. 

Their  captain,  who  was  a  linen  draper  of  Galway  and 
had  a  reputation  to  sustain,  offered  to  lead  a  forlorn  hope 
in  an  attempt  to  scale  the  natural  fortress.  His  proposi- 
tion was  received  with  joy.  It  was  certainly  better  to 
make  short  work  of  the  matter  than  to  sit  in  cold  and 
misery  under  the  ocean  spray  and  the  Connemara  showers, 
and  shiver  to  death. 


HANNIBAL  FIPPS  McCONKEY  391 

The  captain,  the  same  man  who  had  laughed  at  Han- 
nibal as  the  ninth  part  of  a  man,  showed  his  courage  by 
attempting  to  rush  up  the  face  of  the  rock,  expecting  a 
large  following.  He  fell  with  a  bullet  in  his  leg,  and  his 
command  fled  in  disorder. 

It  was  a  disgusted  and  dismantled  company  that  wan- 
dered into  the  city  of  Galway,  carrying  their  wounded 
captain.  Their  reports  of  the  number  and  malignancy  of 
the  rebels  were  terrifying,  and  they  were  immediately 
replaced  by  a  regiment  of  the  line. 

With  colors  flying  and  bands  playing,  the  regulars 
marched  through  the  pleasant  glens  and  winding  roads 
that  traversed  the  famous  mountain  passes  of  Conne- 
mara,  and  in  due  time  arrived  at  the  scene  of  action. 

The  officer  in  charge,  a  tall  man  who  carried  a  monocle, 
was  very  disgusted  and  very  pale  and  distraught.  Every- 
thing was  very  still.  Suppose  this  thing  was  a  hoax,  or 
an  alarm  born  of  a  diseased  brain  ?  Hark !  It  was  true, 
then,  "and  cheeks  grew  pale  that  never  paled  before ;"  the 
cursed  rebels  were  at  it.  They  were  preparing  for  action. 
Orders  were  given  and  the  noise  of  many  feet  smote  the 
air;  but  where  were  the  rebels?  Where  they  could 
pour  cold  lead  into  the  British  redcoats  unmolested.  But 
it  was  too  late  to  turn  back.  Slowly  the  soldiers  sur- 
rounded, as  well  as  they  could,  the  natural  fortress. 

"Surrender!"  cried  the  commander.  For  reply  a  vol- 
ley was  poured  into  the  ranks  of  the  besiegers,  and  for 
three  days  and  three  nights  they  wasted  the  ammunition 
of  the  Queen  on  the  rocky  face  of  the  mountain.  Pro- 
visions were  sent  for  and  the  siege  was  laid. 

At  the  end  of  the  tenth  day,  a  white  flag  was  visible 
from  a  loophole.  A  messenger  was  sent  to  confer  with 


392       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

a  man  in  a  brilliant  uniform,  whose  face  was  pale  but 
determined.  Starvation  had  done  its  work. 

"I  wish  to  surrender  with  all  th'  honors  of  war,"  he 
said. 

"  Full  surrender — men  and  arms  ?"  returned  the  envoy, 
relieved. 

"Yes;  but,"  bargained  the  rebel  chief,  "I  deliver  me 
sword  only  to  th'  general,  an'  demand  fair  an'  honorable 
treatment." 

This  was  accorded.  The  news  went  around  that  the 
dangerous  rebels  had  surrendered,  and  then  the  men  of 

the  th  saw  something  that  nearly  paralyzed  them. 

It  was  again  the  story  of  a  mountain  in  travail  and  the 
bringing  forth  of  a  mouse. 

From  an  orifice  in  the  granite-clad  hill,  a  little  man 
emerged.  He  wore  a  magnificent  uniform,  that  glittered 
in  the  sunlight,  and  in  his  hand  he  carried  a  sword.  He 
passed  it  to  the  commander,  who  advanced  to  meet  him. 

"And  now  for  your  followers,"  he  said.  "They  will 
stack  their  arms  here,  as  they  pass  out."  Not  another 
soul  appeared. 

"Where  are  your  men?"  asked  the  officer,  haughtily,  of 
his  illustrious  prisoner. 

"Here,"  said  the  new-comer,  slapping  his  breast. 
"Here  they  are!" 

"Let  them  pass  out,"  repeated  the  officer,  fearing 
treachery. 

"They  have  passed  out.    I  am  th'  army." 

"You  alone?" 

"Yes,  I  alone!  I  am  th'  army,  an'  if  I  had  anything 
more  to  eat — I  have  eaten  me  belt — ye  wouldn't  find  me 
so  easy.  'Deed,  no." 


HANNIBAL  FIPPS  McCONKEY  393 

"And  you  were  utterly  alone!"  said  the  astonished 
officer.  "Impossible!  We  heard — hem — sounds  of  an 
immense  concourse  of  men." 

"Ye  heard  me.  Not  another  soul  was  wid  me.  No, 
indeed." 

"I  have  seen  you  before,"  said  the  puzzled  officer, 
"somewhere.  What  is  your  name?" 

"Hannibal  Fipps  McConkey,  at  yer  service,"  replied 
the  "rebel"  commander ;  "an'  ye  saw  me  before.  Oh,  yes, 
ye  saw  me  before !" 

The  officer  started  so  violently  that  his  monocle  flew 
against  the  rock  and  smashed  to  pieces.  Then  in  fierce, 
angry  tones,  he  called  a  march. 

Great  was  the  indignation  of  the  soldiers.  To  be  kept 
under  the  Connemara  showers  for  nine  days  for  a  handful 
of  a  tailor  was  exasperating  and  humiliating. 

Great  was  the  excitement  along  the  line  of  march 
when  the  truth  was  known,  and  greater  yet,  the  fun. 
The  prisoner  was  cheered  at  every  point,  the  cheers  seem- 
ing to  come  from  the  invisible  beings  of  the  air,  for  not 
a  soul  was  visible. 

No  one  seemed  really  happy  but  the  tailor,  and  he  was 
in  the  height  of  his  glory.  He  was  a  prisoner,  indeed, 
but  a  grand  one.  It  was  the  supreme  moment  of  his  life. 
Oh,  if  his  mother  had  only  lived  to  see  him !  No  thought 
of  a  coming  punishment  dampened  lais  joy.  True,  he 
might  be  put  to  death;  but  it  would  be  the  death  of  a 
hero — a  hero  who  had  required  a  whole  regiment  of 
soldiers  to  capture  him. 

After  so  many  despatches  about  the  "dangerous 
rebels,"  something  had  to  be  done  before  the  story  went 
to  headquarters — a  story  that  would  cover  all  in  con- 


394       FATHER  TOM  OF  CONNEMARA 

nection  with  it  with  shame  and  ignominy.  A  consultation 
was  held,  and  the  tailor  was  quietly  dropped  at  the  base 
of  one  of  his  mountains.  Despatches  were  sent  on  to 
London,  telling  a  very  different  story,  and  the  truth  was 

kept  under  cover  for  the  honor  of  Her  Majesty's th 

Regiment. 

Hannibal  never  was  molested, — never  was  brought  to 
trial  for  his  insurrection, — and  he  carried  the  title  of 
General  undisputed  to  the  day  of  his  death. 


A     000  052  640 


